Incursus
by 6hoursgirl
Summary: Picking up where Contagium left off, Mulder, Scully, and their son must find a way to live in a post-apocalyptic world.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: A year later than anticipated, but it's done. Thanks for your encouragement, kudos, comments, and prodding; I hope it's worth the wait!_

 _On a personal note, my dad passed away from cancer this spring. Even though he wasn't an X-Files fan, he was an avid supporter of my creative efforts, and the look on his face when I told him I'd written a book is one I'll never forget._

 _I started Incursus in 2014, and it wasn't until after he'd passed that I realized I'd inadvertently named one of the characters after him._

 _This is for you, Dad._

* * *

 **Warning: Major character death ahead. Read at your own risk. ;)**

* * *

OUTSIDE LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

It started with a cough.

Charlie's mom got it first; fever, chills, _nothing to worry about_ , she said, with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, a bottle of Dayquil and a box of tissues on the coffee table. _Just don't let your father get near me; you know how it goes, I get a cold and he'll get pneumonia. Do you have your inhaler, hon?_

When her dad came down with it, they said the same thing. _We'll be fine, sweetie, and could you run to the store and grab some ibuprofen?_

She had. She'd walked to the store two blocks down and picked up the ibuprofen, plus cough drops, orange juice, and saltines, and splurged on a comic book with the leftover change.

By the second day, the news started to trickle in, but Charlie didn't notice. She read about something on the internet, but it was vague and happening on the East coast, Boston, which might as well have been a world away from their home in Nevada. They were safe, she thought; protected by the invisible borders of a dozen states and several thousand miles.

Even when it got bad, when the district canceled school ("just being cautious," the superintendent assured them, pausing twice to clear his throat during the prerecorded message), when her father turned the TV on and left it on, playing in the background like an endless funeral dirge, they said it was nothing. Her parents smiled through tired, swollen eyes, and reassured her everything would be OK. Their mouths spoke what their eyes couldn't convey.

Her father turned in for the night, well before dinner. Her mother did the same. Charlie stayed up until her usual bedtime at ten, shutting off the lights one by and one and checking the locks on the doors; something that made her feel notably older than her fifteen years.

By the sixth day, they were gone, but Charlie didn't know it. She didn't want to know it. They were just sleeping it off.

They'd been sleeping it off for three days.

Time began to lose meaning. She'd catch herself staring at her fingers as though she'd never seen them before, examining her cuticles as if they were a new and interesting species of bug. She picked at the corners until they bled, an anxious habit that began in grade school and had stopped a few years ago. How odd, she thought, that it would come back.

She remained perplexed and fascinated and faintly disgusted at the way the flesh curled around the hard bed of the nail, the bright drop of ruby blood, the way it bled into the divots and valleys of her skin, alighting her knuckles like roses in slow bloom.

She could spend hours sitting perfectly still in the same spot, mind blank, then come to as though no time had passed and wonder why her back felt sore and stiff, why her muscles ached from atrophy.

When her own throat started to itch, to tickle, she fell asleep clutching her aspirator to her chest, too terrified to make a sound. If she coughed, if she so much as cried, she would die, so she wouldn't cough, not a bit, not even when the asthma attack threatened to consume her. She sucked on her inhaler and counted to ten over and over, until the spasms in her throat and chest subsided, until the sour medicine was almost gone.

When her eyes cleared, when her chest loosened a fraction, she slept. And when she woke, it was with a sudden and unwelcome sense of clarity: She had been left alone.

The news outlasts her parents by six days. She leaves it off, stops paying attention. In that self-focused way teenagers have, she thinks she must be the only person alive, even though the dwindling evidence to the contrary might play a drone to her empty thoughts. It doesn't seem important now. Her world has already ended.

When she finally works up the nerve to turn the TV on, there is nothing but static, and she stares at it long enough for her ears to start humming, for her head to ache, as if the grainy pattern of pixels might form a human face and save her from this miserable nothingness.

She doesn't leave the house. Her street is quiet, but where would she go? She knows what's happened out there, and she won't risk being exposed. She won't even venture into her parents' bedroom; if she doesn't open the door, she won't have to face what's inside.

After ten days, the house starts to smell. Not strong, just a light, sour odor, like someone left a piece of meat in the fridge past its expiration date, or missed garbage day. They're having a particularly warm spring, and though the air conditioner remains running, the circulator's filter struggles with the odor.

There's no food, save for the dregs of the carton of orange juice, and a box of graham crackers in the pantry. She picks at them, nibbling at the edges without relish, and puts the remains back in the crinkling wax wrapper to save for later. The water that comes from the faucet is warm but potable, and she dutifully fills her glass every hour as an obligation to her body, but her mind is somewhere else.

She's begun to feel like the subject of a science experiment, like one of the frogs they dissected in biology class, splayed and poked and prodded by some unseen entity who's waiting for her to break. The frog has the advantage of already being dead.

She wonders, with a certain amount of cold detachment, why she was left behind.

On day fourteen, she decides to open the door.

Their bedroom has always been a safe haven; small, but not cramped, and smelling of home. Her mother kept it neat, save for the dresser, which still contains an assortment of pictures and scraps, pieces of family life. She was an only child, and the dresser looms from across the room like a shrine to her childhood, everything but the lit candles and incense.

So much time has passed since the night they went to bed and didn't wake up. She's prepared for blood, for the smell that's been circulating through the house, growing stronger and stronger. She wraps a damp cloth around her nose and mouth, tying it in the back, and dons a pair of yellow rubber cleaning gloves.

Nothing could prepare her for the sight.

Her mother had thrown off her blankets, the fever too much, and her hand hangs, pallid and gray across her bloated middle. Her nightgown his ridden up to reveal legs streaked with black veins, and Charlie feels her knees weaken, feels them becoming loose and disconnected. She stumbles, but doesn't fall, taking care to lean against the wall.

She closes her eyes and counts to ten, then twenty, and thirty, like she does when her asthma is bad. In her hand, she clutches her inhaler, but her breath remains clear, unobstructed—small favors.

She reaches one-thousand before she opens her eyes. The same gruesome picture, but this time she forces herself to stay upright. The shape of her father lies on the opposite side of the bed, equally bloated. His mouth hangs open, and she takes a careful step toward the bed. Another, another, and after each one she is surprised to find her legs hold her weight, that her heart doesn't stop in her chest.

There is blood, but not much. Around his mouth, mostly, and his nose—tiny flecks where he'd sneezed grace the stubble along his jaw, giving his naturally auburn beard a glaring reddish hue. They look strangely peaceful, eyes closed, mouths relaxed, and there is something to be said for a quiet death, but she doesn't know what that might be. She doesn't feel loss, not exactly; sadness, yes, but she senses things are different now. The world no longer has the luxury of mourning.

She's close enough to reach out and touch him now, close enough to lean down to give her father a kiss on his lightly bloodied cheek, but she doesn't. Some hateful thing inside her won't let her touch their pallid skin; the hands that used to hold her are out of reach. She hadn't been there in their final moments; she doesn't deserve closure.

Something moves in the bed.

The air that's drawn into her lungs feels hot and heavy and her throat slams shut. She can't breathe, can only croak in surprise as the movement continues; her father's stomach pulses, stretches and settles, the blanket shifting until it slides slightly off, revealing a blackened stomach, straining, rippling…

"Ohhhhh…"

The sound comes from her mouth, tight and unrecognizable, and she sinks back, back, her hip slamming into the dresser hard enough to make pictures rattle and topple over the glossy wood surface. Something—a vase or mug, perhaps, some childish token of love—tips and rolls off the bureau, shattering on the hardwood floor, sprinkling the surface with glass. She can't look away from the thing, the _thing that used to be her dad that's now moving, oh dear God, it's moving…_

Her hand pushes off the dresser, enough forward momentum to break the horrible spell, the hold this strange experience has on her, and she steps through broken glass and struggles to the door that seems so far away now.

Her foot is cut, a shard embedded deep in her left heel, but she doesn't feel it as she stumbles into the hall and down the stairs, fleeing to the kitchen, to the spot under the table where she used to play when she was little, amongst the graham cracker crumbs.

She curls up on the floor, shivering, the dull ache in her foot taking over, and no amount of counting to ten can make this stop hurting.

Her neck is sore, her shoulder throbs, and her foot is on fire. She struggles to wake, notes the dust bunnies drifting around her, the familiar patina of the kitchen cupboards in front of her, but how strange, that they're so tall, and she is so small. Alice, who ate the wrong cookie and woke up in Wonderland.

She blinks, shakes her aching head. _No…no, you're on the floor…you were…_

 _Oh._

She sits up, nearly bumping her head on the underside of the table in the process, and tenderly reaches to examine her bloody foot. There's a trail of red from the door of the kitchen, she can see the source of the wound that's causing her so much pain.

She shudders at the vague memory of visiting her parents' room, and why she fell asleep on the kitchen floor like a four-year-old.

 _It moved._

She stills the onslaught of panic with a short burst from her inhaler, more for comfort than necessity; her lungs feel tight, but the taste of the medicine is soothing, allows her to focus.

She crawls out from under her strange bed and goes for the sink, adrenaline has left her thirsty. Nothing comes from the tap when she turns the knob, just a spatter of water and the groan of the pipes, and with a sinking stomach she realizes the power has finally gone out. It's the first in a series of wake-up calls.

 _How long has it been like this?_ She wonders.

There are bottles of water in the fridge; she'd had the foresight not to drink them while the taps were still running, but there's not enough saved to last more than a couple days, even if she's careful. She'll have to go out.

 _Go where?_ her mind asks, an innocent enough question with a terrible answer. She wonders if there was panic, or if everyone died as quietly as her parents, holed up in their homes to drift off into death.

She wonders if the others are moving, too.

Her stomach lurches. The fridge is still cold when she opens it and finds the water; the power can't have been out long. Maybe it will come back…

She catches a glimpse out the kitchen window; their northern Las Vegas suburb is so quiet, so still. Not a soul on the streets, not even a dog or a roaming cat looking through the trash. She can see the neighbors' yard, which is usually pristine and green, one of the brightest on the block, now growing brown at the edges, dead patches in the middle, like a rash spreading across the ground. No one has watered it for days, maybe weeks, and the desert is unforgiving to the lush sod.

 _Maybe not._

The water tastes sweet on her dry, sour tongue. It's so good, she guzzles half of it down before she remembers she meant to conserve it. There are two more bottles left, and she needs to come up with a plan to get more.

The noise comes from behind, startling her. The bottle drops from her hands and bounces, spilling out onto the floor.

 _Damn._

Knocking, again.

Her head snaps up and her heart pounds. Someone is knocking at the door, calling out.

"Charlotte? Are you there?"

A male voice, but unfamiliar.

 _How does he know my name?_

She swallows, closes her eyes, and sinks into the corner. Maybe if she's quiet, he'll go away. The blinds in the living room are drawn, he won't be able to see in…maybe he'll go away.

 _Maybe not._

The knocking persists, and then stops abruptly. No one calls out. She dares to breathe again, taking in short gasps of air, clutching the inhaler in her pocket, dimly aware that it is as precious a resource as the water in the fridge.

 _Don't move. Don't move._

Her hands clamp themselves over her mouth when the pounding starts. The door shudders under the weight of her intruder, and her mind flutters like a panicked bird, beating its wings helplessly against the walls of its prison. She reaches up, fumbling at the drawer above her, instinctively seeking a weapon, not that she knows how to wield it if it comes to that.

 _And it's going to come to that_ , she thinks wildly, withdrawing a steak knife. _It's going to, so you'd better stand up. Stand up, get on your feet._

She does, her hands shaking violently, holding the knife awkwardly in front of her. She's standing in a puddle of spilled water, and it stings the cut on her foot, but she can't feel it over the rush of blood at her throat. The incessant pounding continues, and she stifles a moan. She can just see the kitchen door from this angle, throbbing inward, until it finally gives way with a shuddering groan.

"Charlotte?"

 _Who are you? Get out of here!_ her mind screams, but no words come out. The daylight is blinding, blocking her view as the knife wavers wildly in front of her.

"Charlotte, I want to help you."

"Go…go away," she croaks.

"I'm not going to hurt you," his voice is soft, soothing, and she's so confused, so terrified, and it sounds so tempting…

"Please," she murmurs as he steps into the shadows, pausing so she can make out his features; lean, narrow, kind eyes, stark white hair. A total stranger. "Please."

"It's OK, Charlotte," he says, and he smiles, a bright, white smile that's almost unnatural. But still, his eyes are kind, and he's the first person she's seen in…well, she doesn't know exactly how long. At least two weeks.

"I'm here to help," he says carefully, watching her as the knife wavers in her hands. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Robert Mosely, but you can call me whatever you like," he says carefully. "I used to work at your hospital, remember? You came in for your asthma treatments when you were a little girl…such a brave little girl…"

She squints, trying to recall his face, but her memories of those days are hazy and twelve years gone.

"Why should I trust you?" she asks.

"Because you're a smart girl," he says, eyes shifting back and forth between the knife and her face. "Because your parents are dead, Charlotte, and you don't know where else to go. Because you know that something bad has happened, and you need a friend. I'd like to be your friend," he says.

"Why?"

He smiles again, bright and gentle, and her hands lower the flimsy weapon a fraction. "Because you're special, Charlotte. You know it. You're a survivor," he insists. "And all the survivors are special."

"Why? Why did I survive?"

"In time," he answers. "Right now, we need to go to a safe place. This…this house won't be safe soon," he says, glancing upstairs but never letting the calm, soothing tenor waver from his voice. "I have a…a home, of sorts. I'd like to bring you there. There are others, just like us. Special ones. Survivors."

 _Survivors._

Her mind rattles in its lonely cage. The thought that there might be others, other people like her, is a foreign one. She hadn't dared to believe it, but Robert…Mosely…whoever he was…

"It's OK," he whispers again, reaching out his hand, taking the risk.

She relinquishes the knife with a soft squeak. It clatters to the floor, and he smiles again. "Good…good." His eyes shift again to the upstairs bedroom, as if he knows whatever is up there will come for them.

 _They were moving, the bodies were moving, like there was something inside…_

Her throat closes without warning, her chest grows tight, and she draws in a ragged breath at the thought of leaving her parents to this fate. He senses her unrest, gestures to the inhaler.

"Use it," he says encouragingly. "There's plenty more. I'll take care of you."

She brings the inhaler to her lips, never taking her eyes off her strange new caretaker, wondering how her life could be so changed in so little time.

"Come," he says, beckoning, and she does, following him out the door and into the bright summer heat.

She doesn't look back.


	2. Chapter 2

APRIL 5, 2015

FALMOUTH, MASSACHUSETTS

"So where is this place, exactly?"

Fox Mulder frowns, scanning the horizon, blue water and sky for miles. It's warm, unusually so for April in New England, and his t-shirt sticks to his sea-damp skin.

"I think it was this way…" he starts in the direction of the water. The ground dips as grass turns to sand and tiny stones beneath their feet, and soon they're looking at the rough Massachusetts shoreline and an equally rough wood dock.

His partner, Dana Scully, tosses a glance over her shoulder with a soft huff, looking for their son. "Isaac?"

"Comin'."

They make their way down the slope to the dock, where a small motor boat bobs and sways in the tide. The sun is warm on her skin, but the water is deceptively cold; New England spring at its finest.

"Mulder, what are we looking for?"

"See that island? That's Martha's Vineyard to the east, the smaller island next to it is the preserve. No, over there…it's behind that. A quarter mile out, maybe more."

"Are you—"

"I'm sure, Scully."

Another sigh. Isaac, dark-eyed and sullen, still recovering from the infection, looks perpetually uncertain.

"Alright. Let's go, then," Scully finally says, making her way to the edge of the water. Neither Mulder nor Scully are strangers to boating, but looking at the small, dingy craft, she thinks, _it's going to take some time to get reacquainted._

"Hope the motor works," Mulder mutters, squinting at the water while he loosens the knot that tethers the boat to the dock. "Isaac, over there, grab that rope for me; we can use this as an anchor once we get to the island."

The boy does as he says, pale hands skimming the rough brown surface of wet rope, leaving dirty trails of seawater across the wood dock.

Mulder stands back. "Try the boat; I'll grab our stuff from the car."

"Got it," Scully nods, eying the boat warily. It's an older model, but the fiberglass base is intact, no cracks. Hopefully it will hold.

"How're you holding up?" she asks quietly, when Mulder has left for the car. "Feeling sick?"

Isaac nods, his eyes ringed with dark circles. "Stomach hurts."

Scully purses her lips in worry. "I'll take a look when we get to the island."

Isaac nods again, and Scully struggles to find the words to ask the question she needs to ask, but he already knows.

"Yeah, I can still hear them," he whispers.

"Are they close?"

He frowns, eyebrows knit together in a moment of concentration. "No," he sighs finally. "No, they're not close. Not yet."

She relaxes a little, but keeps an eye on him as she turns her attention to the boat's motor. A sharp tug on the ignition produces a puff of black smoke and a low growl, then silence.

 _C'mon._

Another tug, another groan, but this time the engine gives a feeble cough and turns over.

"Yes!" Scully says, a brief moment of respite from the tense silence that's followed them all the way from western Virginia.

Mulder returns carrying three duffel bags of supplies and black leather case.

"Still got it, Starbuck," he says, earning a wry smirk from his partner at her long lost childhood nickname.

"It's no _Pequod_ , but I think it will hold water. Mulder, what is that?" she asks, gesturing to the case in his hands.

"Laptop. You never know," he says, then abruptly changes the subject. "We'll come back for supplies. I don't want to leave the car…but it's not like there's anyone around to bother it," he finishes, rubbing at the back of his neck, body language betraying his uncertainty.

 _Nothing human, at least_ , she thinks, the sentiment of victory replaced by a chill, one deeper than she could attribute to the spray of cold salt water that erupts from beneath the boat.

She shuts the engine off. "I think it will work for now. We have enough gas, but it needs a tune-up if we're going to use it," she says.

Mulder tosses the duffels into the bottom of the boat. "I should be able to manage," he says.

The three of them climb into the boat, adjusting as it rocks beneath their feet when Mulder climbs in and throws their balance off.

"Ready?"

"You do the honors, Starbuck."

Scully cranks the engine again, manning the small craft as it pulls away from the dock. She points them toward the island, and it crawls closer over the water's deceptive distance. She tries to let go, to experience the moment the way she might have when she was a child, let the rhythmic motion of the boat speeding across the waves relax her. Within minutes, her retinas burn from the glare of the sun on the water, the cloudless sky, the spray of sea foam. It's a beautiful day, so crisp and clear, it's almost possible to forget the circumstances.

They'd left the house at daybreak, and she'd allowed herself one last backward glance at their home before heading north. One look, one life abandoned for another, but the will to survive blotted out any indulgent self pity.

What was a house but a shell? By some stroke of luck, everything that mattered was still with her, flying down empty back roads in a battered Prius.

They didn't pass a single moving car between the western Virginia border and their final destination.

"It will be cooler by the coast…it's mostly summer homes up there, not a lot of locals…less chance we'll run into one of them, at least not for a while."

For once, Scully didn't have the strength to argue with her partner, didn't protest the destination even though his logic was questionable. Even the craziest of ideas didn't seem crazy now. Her world had tilted on its axis overnight.

 _Because they'll hatch soon. And then what?_

When they ran from the FBI, at least they knew the enemy, could look into its face and recognize the pattern, the familiar facets of a biological equal. The new enemy has yet to be seen in the light.

Isaac had slept in the back, weak and bruised from the infection. She checked on him every five minutes, the way she had when he was a baby, to watch for the even rise and fall of his chest in his sleep. Eventually Mulder's hand came to rest on her knee, as she was twisting in her seat to check him for the eighth time.

"He's OK, Scully," he had whispered. "Get some rest."

She had, pressing her temple to the cool glass of the window, but her eyes refused to close, her mind worrying at their collective fragility.

In the grand scheme of things, humanity is a blip on the universe's radar. Asteroid or virus, it doesn't matter—the frailty of life has always been a coin toss away from death.

This time, the universe flipped the wrong way.

"This way!"

Mulder is gesturing starboard, so she redirects the motor, easing the boat over steadily churning waves. They're approaching the larger island, circling it; she spots cabins and luxe summer homes with dark windows and drawn shades, once the sites of happy family vacations and July 4th barbecues. Now it's unlikely these homes will see any occupants.

"They were friends of Dad's," Mulder explains, shouting over the din of the motor. "We visited once when I was a kid…I don't know if they still own the place, but I remember thinking the island was nice. Remote," he says, with a knowing nod to his partner.

Isaac looks out across the water with the same pinched expression, another reminder that things are not what they seem.

 _He's scared. You're all scared shitless, Dana. And you should be._

She pushes the thought away as they come around to the back of the island; up ahead, she can just make out the outline of a much smaller piece of land, a house at the top of a low bluff.

As they get closer, she realizes she'd been expecting a camp, rustic and set apart from civilization, but that's not the case. It's a two-story, shuttered cape.

Mulder is grinning at something, a glimmer on the roof, but Scully can't make it out.

"Careful here," Mulder warns, gesturing to the rocks around the property. Scully slows, taking a wide berth around the shoreline until they reach a dock at the back.

"Think we hit the jackpot, Scully."

She shields her eyes, and finds he's right. She can't help but grin a little herself at their good fortune.

 _Solar panels._

"They're in good shape, I think," Mulder says. "We may have power out here after all."

The boat rocks and bumps against the dock in the shallow waters as they step out, Isaac first; he tethers the small craft to the cleat without being asked.

"Think we should check it out first?" she asks, eying the big house with its dark shutters drawn against winter's battering ram.

"It's empty," Isaac says immediately. "I'd know if they were here."

Relief mixed with unease at this point-blank observation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to hear monsters in his head.

Mulder doesn't seem to notice their son's quiet gaze; he's already making his way up the hill toward the house with a shuffling limp, a holdover from last week's brush with their imminent future.

W _as it really only last week?_ she thinks with dismay, time interrupting and twisting around her like a boa constrictor. Her neck aches, the bruises there have faded to a dusky purplish-yellow, another painful reminder as she struggles to reach her pack at the bottom of the boat.

Mulder is picking the lock on the door; the last tumbler clicks into place as Scully drops their luggage onto the whitewashed porch. He glances over at her and grins.

"Shall I carry you over the threshold, Mrs. Spooky?"

Her eyebrow goes up, an involuntary reflex, though the new band on her finger suddenly feels warm. She coughs. "I think we can skip the formalities, Mulder," she says, glancing down at his knee. "Besides, I'm not sure you can handle me."

"Ugh, gross," Isaac mutters, shoving his way through, leaving the two former agents to exchange a look behind their son's back.

"Well," Mulder says after an uncomfortable pause, "glad to see that whole virus thing hasn't tainted his total and utter disenchantment with us."

She snorts. "We should—"

"Right behind you."

Isaac is already exploring upstairs. "This bedroom's mine!" he calls from somewhere to her right, and Scully sighs, feeling the weight of a thousand worries settle back onto her shoulders.

"At least he's making himself at home."

"I'll grab our stuff."

She nods, grimacing a little, looking around. The place is cozier than it looked from the outside, furniture covered in white sheets and a film of dust. "I'll see what we're dealing with."

It's dark, the shutters are boarded and probably nailed shut. The light switches don't work, and the empty fridge door hangs open. No electricity, but that's not discouraging.

 _They probably turned everything off when they left for the winter._

She picks the sheets off a sofa, a chair, shaking off the dust and an errant cobweb. There are three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a study, and a kitchen that puts their old farmhouse's cramped quarters to shame.

She feels a twinge of homesickness, but pushes it aside easily. Mulder reappears in the doorway with two gallons of water, a duffel slung over one shoulder.

"We'll go back and get the rest tomorrow…go hunting for supplies. I want to see if we can figure out the solar stuff before it gets dark. Hopefully they were using it for more than just hot water."

"I'd settle for living in candlelight if I could take a hot shower," Scully says, trying unsuccessfully to stretch the ache from her muscles.

"Amen," Mulder mutters, heading for the kitchen. "Is there a basement?"

There isn't. Slab foundation construction, not uncommon for an island home where the topsoil is shallow, but further exploration reveals a shed out back. Mulder makes quick work of the padlock.

"Boom," Mulder says as the door swings open with an audible creak.

There's what looks like a large battery alongside a water heater, with a breaker panel on the wall to the left.

"Let's see if this thing has any juice," he says. The switches flip to ON with a loud _clack_ , and they exchange a look. Scully runs outside, calling out to the back of the house.

"Hey Isaac! Try the lights!"

A few seconds later, there's a warm yellow glow emanating from one of the upstairs bedrooms, and Scully can't help but grin.

The shed also contains a pump, presumably for the house's water supply. The water from the tap runs a foul-smelling dirty gray for a few minutes as the sludge at the bottom of the pipes comes up, but eventually it clears.

"We can't drink it," Scully warns them. "It's seawater, I saw the intake around back. We'll have to haul fresh water from the island, but we should be able to shower."

The rest of the evening is spent unpacking their meager belongings into two of the upstairs bedrooms. Scully finds a bucket of cleaning supplies under the sink and starts working on the kitchen, scrubbing countertops and appliances until they shine under the light of the lamp.

Her thoughts are a fog of disconnection, the cleaning a feeble attempt for her brain to return their lives to a level of normalcy that will never exist.

They haven't eaten since they left the house, but no one complains. Her stomach rumbles, but it's a distant roar compared to the rush of her anxious heart. She's been fighting nausea since they left, and suspects Mulder and Isaac are similarly uninspired by the thought of food. She opens one of the cans of fruit they'd brought, picking at the sugary, syrupy pears and peaches half-heartedly as she works.

She catches a glimpse of Mulder from the window over the kitchen sink. He's exploring the property around the house, the island and the bluff out back, while Isaac is drawn to the study, pawing through the books and examining vintage knickknacks.

It's late by the time they convene in the living room, withdrawn and exhausted, but wired.

"I'll keep watch tonight," Mulder says, rubbing at his eyes. "No point in all of us losing sleep."

"Do you think they'll hatch soon?" asks Isaac.

Scully frowns, "It's hard to say what kind of biology we're dealing with, but the infected I saw weren't full term. I think we have some time."

Mulder looks at him, murmuring, "You'll know before we do, kid."

The boy seems to accept this, but his face pales slightly.

"How's your stomach?" Scully asks.

"Still hurts a bit," Isaac mumbles. "It's prob'ly nothing."

"I have my med kit upstairs. Let's check you out to be sure."

Isaac wrinkles his nose, but doesn't protest.

"I'll be up soon," Mulder says. "Going to lock up."

Scully finds Isaac in the bedroom at the far end of the hall, and she can immediately see why he chose it. It's darker than the others, more sparse. It has the air of a den, a lair, and it reminds her of his bedroom at their old house. He's made up the bed with some sheets from the linen cupboard, a brown duvet thrown haphazardly on top.

Isaac is sitting on the edge of the bed with his hands in his lap, like a patient in a doctor's office.

"I just want to listen for a minute, OK?" Scully says softly, gesturing to the stethoscope in her hands.

He lies back, and she listens. The rush of air in and out of the boy's lungs is mesmerizing, the thrum of his heartbeat is strong and soothing. "Everything sounds good. You said your stomach hurts?"

He winces. "Yeah, a little."

"Can I check?" He nods, and she places her hands on his abdomen. "Let me know if you feel any pain, OK?"

He nods again, and she prods at his stomach, palpating the areas around his gallbladder and appendix. She watches his face out of the corner of her eye, but he doesn't move, doesn't indicate she's causing pain.

 _Skin is cool, no fever. No swelling. Even the bruising is gone._

She holds back a shudder as she remembers the victims' distended abdomens, the bruise growing like a storm cloud across Isaac's midsection…

"It may be stress. You've been through a lot," she murmurs. "It may take some time for your body to forget. Take it easy, drink lots of water, and tell me if it gets worse. Promise?"

"Yeah," he agrees softly, but he doesn't look relieved. If she could see her own expression, she'd probably find she doesn't, either.

"Let's get some rest, OK? I'll check again in the morning."

He swallows, pulling the duvet over his shoulders, curling onto his side in the double bed. Night has settled around the unheated house, leaving it damp and a touch cooler than is comfortable.

She packs away her kit and gets up to leave, but he stops her.

"Hey, Doc?"

"Mmm?"

"Would you…can you stay with me for a few minutes? Like you used to?"

Something hard within her, the fountain of inner strength she's leaned on since they left the farm early yesterday morning, begins to unravel at the timbre of his voice.

"I didn't think you knew about that," she whispers, sitting back down. "Of course…I'll stay."

And she does, letting herself think of the good things, the memories, the softer moments of their tumultuous relationship.

 _The scent of William's downy hair after his bath, watching Mulder hold him for the first time, his laughter…_

"Doc?"

His voice, thick and sleepy in the darkened room, startles her, and she blinks back tears, wondering if he can sense the bittersweetness these memories bring with them. "Yeah?"

"Thanks."

She waits until Isaac's breathing is deep and even before she retreats, heart and head too full, a whirlwind of emotions threatening to overflow the careful walls she's built around them. Her hands won't stop trembling, her ribs and neck ache.

Mulder is making the bed in their room.

"Hey, found the sheets. Figured you would—"

She meets him at the edge of the bed with two quick strides, stopping his mouth with a kiss, urgent and deep.

"Whoa, OK," he gasps when she finally pulls away, both of them struggling for breath. Her arms wind around his neck, pulling him down to her once more, gentler but insistent, demanding.

 _…forget I just need to forget make me forget…_

She undresses him with skilled hands, his t-shirt ruffling his already unruly hair as it slides off his body with a whisper. He's laid flat on the bed before he can speak, strong thighs straddling his hips.

"Scully, are you—"

"Shh," she murmurs, tongue drawing a hot line from the base of his ear to the hollow of his throat, meeting his mouth again.

"Wait, what about…Isaac—" he gasps, struggling for comprehension as blood rushes to regions south.

"Asleep," she mutters, panting softly. "Mulder…please."

Two little words, so much power. It's intoxicating, and his hands find the ridges of her spine arching beneath her shirt, the warm weight of her breasts, the taut skin of her nipples rising to meet his eager fingers.

He gently traces the bruises on her throat, the scar along her ribcage, looking at her too deeply, with something akin to pity. She stills his hands, pushing them away. It can't be slow if this is going to happen.

The moment is a mess of buttons and denim and skin. His eyes are black with desire when she slides down his length, rocking atop him without mercy. He grasps at her hips but there is no controlling her, there never has been.

She comes hard and fast and silent with her face pressed into the crescent of his neck, teeth grazing the tendons at the top of his shoulder, her jeans still tangled around one calf. The air around them is heavy with seawater and sex.

His voice rumbles against her cheek. "If I'd known putting a ring on your finger would do that, I'd have asked you to marry me fifteen years ago."

She snorts softly, eyes closed, willing her breath to steady as his hand rubs her naked back. She'd wanted an escape, wanted to forget, but now she feels raw, exposed, torn open.

Mulder is still chattering beneath her, pleasantly buzzed. "You know, if they're counting on us to repopulate the earth, I'd be happy to die trying."

Her sob is whispered onto the skin of his shoulder, and his hand stills instantly.

"Scully? Hey…"

She rolls off him, turning away, but she's too late to fully retreat. She grips the side of the bed hard.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, lips drawing a light kiss against the back of her shoulder. "Hey, I'm sorry, that was stupid. I wasn't thinking."

"It's not that," she says finally, drawing her hand against her eyes. "I just…what are we going to do?"

The million dollar question spoken aloud.

He's quiet. "I don't know," he admits, reaching around to draw her closer, her back pressed to his chest like a chrysalis.

"They know where Isaac is, They'll find him. We can't…we can't hide. We don't know when they're going to spawn, we don't have any idea how many people are still alive…"

She babbles, the fear overflowing her lips faster than she can contain it. "And Isaac! He's so weak, God knows what the vaccine did to him. We don't know anything, Mulder, and yet we're…we're acting like this is some kind of family retreat, like a goddamned vacation…"

"I know, shh, I know," he soothes, his arm like a vise around her waist, anchoring her to the bed.

"I called my mom right before the virus hit," she whispers, and she feels the hitch in his breathing as the realization sinks in. "She was sick when I talked to her, she. She…Mulder, she's probably dead. My family…everyone…"

"You don't know that," he says, but it's a knee-jerk response, full of false hope.

"I keep thinking it's not real," she continues, ignoring him. "I keep thinking this can't be happening, but it is, and I don't…I don't know what to do."

Mulder swallows hard. "You sleep. That's what you do. Tomorrow…"

He doesn't finish the thought, but the promise of a new day is enough to ease her mind, and the weight of him against her is a comfort.

Eventually she dreams.

She's breathing deeply when he pulls the quilt over her bare, sun-freckled shoulders. Mulder pulls on what's left of his clothes, leaving the bedroom door open a crack in case she wakes. The house's floorboards creak under his weight.

He can't remember seeing his partner so fragmented, and he can't admit to himself how much it shakes him. Remnants of childhood memories play a sharp contrast to the situation in which they find themselves, nostalgia and fear a volatile combination.

Isaac is sleeping soundly, just as Scully said he was, before she….

 _Attacked me_ , Mulder thinks, smiling a little. Not that he'd fought her off. In truth, he'd needed it as much as she had. Since they'd left the farmhouse back in Virginia, it was hard to believe any of this was really happening. Nothing kept him grounded better than Scully, except maybe sex. With Scully.

Mulder peeks into the boy's room, and finds the boy tucked under the covers in a rare moment of peace. He's drawn to him, approaching the bed and kneeling down. He'd been so sick, but now his breathing is slow and regular, his cheeks flushed with sleep.

Mulder finds himself reaching out, letting the back of his hand graze the boy's light brown hair, but doesn't linger for fear of waking him.

 _Let him sleep._

He should sleep, too. It's not as though he expects the grays to attack tonight; the aliens, assuming that's what they are, have better things to worry about right now.

 _Like gestating._

He shudders, wondering how many bodies lie between them and the west coast.

He walks downstairs, rubbing at the back of his neck, where the muscles haven't unwound since they crossed into Massachusetts. They'd driven for hours without a destination until he'd remembered the house on the island. Instinct pointed him here.

His family had come here for a party when he was young, some stuffy Bureau affair put on by one of the higher-ups whom his father reported to, once upon a time. This was long before the Mulder family had been torn apart, back when his mother and father were still speaking to each other, and, most importantly, Samantha was still alive.

He and Sam had spent the day alongside a handful of other Bureau officials' children, running along the beach, taking cannonballs off the dock, and swimming until they were sunburned and drowsy. He'd dozed off on his mother's lap while they sat around the campfire, and he hadn't woken until his father was pulling the blanket over him in his bed at their home in Chilmark.

 _Sam would have been three. Three years old._

It was an uncharacteristically happy time, and if it weren't for his inability to forget, he might have thought it happened to someone else.

The place has aged some, but otherwise it's as Mulder remembers. A fair hiding spot until…

 _Until what?_

He wanders outside, walking to the edge of the beach, heedless of the way the tiny stones cut into his feet, how the damp sand rubs his toes raw. The sea is rough, angry, as if the planet were trying to toss off its unwelcome inhabitants.

Mulder frowns. So many years spent examining his past and dwelling on the future, and now the impending threat leaves him uncomfortably in the present moment, with nothing to fight and nowhere to go.

He'd offered Scully tomorrow, but now, watching the waves' unrelenting onslaught, he realizes his error: Tomorrow was a promise no one could make.


	3. Chapter 3

APRIL 6, 2015

Isaac hasn't dreamed since the vaccine drove the infection from his body, but his sleep is restless, erratic. He wakes when the rest of the house has gone silent, like a vampire from one of his novels, a werewolf in a world where the moon is always full. Always, there is the distant drone of their voices and thoughts in the background, never clear enough to understand, the hum of a live and angry wire.

It's well before dawn, and he lays in his new bed in the strange room. He can hear the faint sounds of Mulder downstairs, the only other person who would willingly maintain such odd hours. The man's thoughts are open, too, but Isaac pushes them away, not wanting to pry.

He creeps down the stairs, peeks into the kitchen, where Mulder is rummaging through the cupboards.

"Hey, kid," he says, looking up, tired eyes and mussed hair, not unlike Isaac's own sleep-tousled brown locks. "Can't sleep?"

Isaac nods. "I'm going to go look in the study…if that's OK."

Mulder shrugs. "Up to you. Feeling better?"

Isaac returns the shrug, a new—but also familiar—silent language all their own.

He leaves him to his work. The study is wall-to-wall shelves of books and small treasures, boxes in the corner, and a broad desk draped with a white cloth. Isaac heads straight for the books, most of which are older volumes, but there's a shelf of paperbacks to his right.

 _Score._

He blows dust off the surface of the shelf, thumbing his way along the titles, mostly popular fiction. Isaac feels a small comfort at the familiar smell of old paper.

Leaving the books for later, he walks the room's perimeter; there's a vintage typewriter with keys that still make a satisfying _clack_ when he presses them, an old pipe that smells of stale tobacco smoke, and an ornate music box that plays a haunting melody.

He unearths a corner chair from beneath a dusty white sheet, and pulls a second sheet off the desk. The surface is smooth, shiny wood, and he runs his fingers along the edge. The top drawer opens to reveal nothing special—anything of personal note has been removed, leaving a pen, several half-sharp pencils, and a few odds and ends.

 _Junk_ , he thinks, disappointed.

The other drawers are locked, and his curiosity is immediately piqued.

"Hey, Mulder," he calls over his shoulder. "Do you still have that lock pick?"

Mulder materializes at the threshold. "You know how to use it?"

"If I say 'no', will you let me try?"

Mulder pauses, then digs in his pocket, handing over the pen-shaped pick.

Isaac grins, then goes to work on the drawer lock. It's a weak lock, too easy, and it pops open.

"I don't want to know how you learned that," Mulder says under his breath, taking back the pen, and Isaac flushes with pride, yanking open the drawer.

He wrinkles his nose. "Looks like bills."

He pulls open the second drawer, and finds the same. More papers, uninteresting. The top locked drawer contains more odds and ends.

"Not every one's a winner, kid," Mulder says, patting him on the shoulder. "But remind me to hide this thing just in case," he says, holding up the pen.

Mulder returns to the kitchen, leaving Isaac disenchanted with his find. He returns to the paperbacks, plucks one from the shelf, and goes outside to find somewhere to sit. The sun is just starting to come up, peeking over the horizon he can make out the outline of Martha's Vineyard in the distance. Something about the island chills him, the hollow shape it carves out of the line where land meets sea, and he has to look away.

The room is dark when Scully wakes from a troubled sleep, the shutters still sealed tight against the dawn. There's momentary confusion— _where am I?_ —followed by the harsh slap of reality.

She pulls on yesterday's jeans, crumpled on the floor from their impromptu lovemaking the night before, and wanders downstairs.

There's no sign of Mulder in the kitchen or living room. The front door hangs open.

Fear sparks in her chest, but she quells it, looking out over the long grass slope to the edge of the water. She can just make out the top of Mulder's head next to the dock, bobbing lightly up and down in the boat.

"Hey, pretty lady," he calls out as she approaches. "How'd you sleep?"

"As well as could be expected," she mutters, drawing in a laden breath, eying his work. His hands are black with oil and dirt, and the boat's motor is exposed to the open air as he works.

"Did you sleep, Mulder?"

He frowns at something, squinting into the engine's mechanical recesses. "Nope. You know me, though—I'll crash tonight."

What she knows is that his sleeping habits are abysmal no matter the circumstances.

"Have you seen Isaac?"

"Our young prodigy was up early…think he's out back. If you see him, let him know we should leave soon. I want to get out to the mainland and back before dusk."

She folds her arms, shifting uncomfortably. He notices.

"What is it, Scully?"

"I don't know how you can be so...so calm. It's like you've been thinking about this, like you have everything figured out, Mulder, and I'm…I'm still trying to catch my breath. The last two weeks have been…" the words catch in her throat, and she fights back angry tears.

He purses his lips, ducks his head in acknowledgement. "I guess I've had fifteen odd years to think about it."

She presses her fingers to her mouth to collect herself, and he watches carefully, but doesn't make a move to comfort her. Even if he did, she thinks, there's little he can offer.

"I'll get Isaac," she sighs.

She finds him on the back porch with a paperback, legs draped over the arm of a weather-beaten wicker chair. She nods toward the book, a tattered Dean Koontz novel. "Anything good?"

He shrugs. "S'not one of his best, but I like it."

"Mulder asked me to—"

"Yeah, I know," he says, wincing. "We're going back out there, huh?"

"You don't sound very happy about that."

Isaac shrugs again, but doesn't respond. She bites back her frustration, decides to change the subject. "How are you—"

"I'm feeling good," he interrupts. "No, really," he says, forcing a small smile. "I'll tell you if I don't, but my stomach doesn't hurt anymore. Promise."

She smiles back, marginally relieved. "In that case, let's get something to eat."

Breakfast is the rest of the canned fruit and a sleeve of saltines, passed around while standing in the kitchen.

"My compliments to Chef Del Monte," Mulder says, wiping peach syrup off his chin with the back of his hand.

Isaac makes a show of levitating his empty can toward the trash as Scully watches, half perturbed, half relieved. The can doesn't quite make it, bouncing lightly off the edge, spilling leftover syrup on the floor.

 _Well, at least he's feeling better._

"I think we can find most of what we need here," Mulder says as they dock the boat at Martha's Vineyard. "There's a grocery store about half a mile that way," he says, pointing west. "And there should be a boat shop down that way, if it hasn't moved. This thing needs oil, and we should get some spare spark plugs," he says, looking at the boat.

"Let's split up," Scully suggests. "Isaac and I will get food, you get the supplies for the boat, we'll meet back here…"

"No!" the boy says, startling them. "No. We should stay together."

Mulder and Scully exchange a look, before agreeing. "OK, sure. Boat first, then food."

The island is showing first signs of greenery, fragrant buds opening to the warm spring sun. Isaac walks ahead, and Scully doesn't take her eyes off his back.

"If I remember correctly, there's a marine supply shop about two miles down the main road…Mr. Craddock, our next door neighbor, owned it. I think his son took over when he passed away, but that was after I left," Mulder says.

"Small town, huh?" Scully remarks, looking around, ocean on one side and wild grass on the other. There's a house in the distance, a large old Cape Cod structure set atop a small hill, but the rest of the landscape is silent. The building's dark windows loom over them like eyes following their path, and she shivers. Suddenly the isolated island feels even more sinister.

Mulder interrupts her thoughts. "The smallest," he agrees. "Mr. Craddock was the one who caught my friend and I smoking pot behind the yacht club when I was sixteen," he smirks. "He never told Dad, though. Think he felt bad for me."

"Is it hard, coming back?" Scully asks. She had imagined, someday, coming back to the place where her partner was born and raised, but had never thought it would be under these circumstances.

"Not really." Mulder gives her a wry half-smile. "Funny how an apocalypse can put the rest of your life's problems in perspective." He presses his lips together, staring into the distance, keeping his voice low. "There's a lot of my childhood I wouldn't want to relive, Scully…but there were some good times, and most of them happened here."

His hand finds hers, giving it a brief squeeze, and for a few moments, her fears are lightened, if not quelled.

The boat shop is small, but the shelves are stocked. Mulder grabs two boxes of spark plugs, two containers of motor oil, then sends Scully and Isaac to hunt for a gas can.

"We need to mix the gas and oil," he says. "There's probably something in the garage."

The garage next door is as tidy as the shop, and Scully finds a red plastic gas can at the rear. Isaac hangs back, nervous, his eyes pinned to the inner door at the side, presumably the entrance to the house.

"Empty, but we can siphon some from the cars in town," she says, picking through the shelves. After a pause, she grabs a toolbox, intending to fill it with tools. "Never know when we might need these. Isaac, can you grab that wrench over there?"

No response. She turns to find the boy rooted in place, staring at the door with wide, pale eyes.

"Isaac?"

"There's two of them."

Scully glances back and forth between the door and her son, puzzled. "Two of what?"

The boy swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the effort. When he finally speaks, his breathing is shallow and his voice is raspy. "Them. They're in there." He points to the door with a shaky hand.

Scully's heart begins to pound a sturdy, angry rhythm in her chest, and she moves slowly to Isaac's side. "What do you hear?" she whispers, as though keeping her voice down will somehow prevent these telepathic beings from being alerted to their presence.

" _Them_ ," he says, more insistent. "I hear _Them_. They're not finished growing, but…they're waiting."

 _Former owners_ , Scully thinks, a sour fear tickling the back of her throat. _Infected._

Isaac's voice is shaky, bordering on panic. "I didn't want to come out here…they know where I am now, they'll find us, Doc, they'll—"

"Hey, what's the hold up? We should—" Mulder asks, coming around the corner and into view, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of his son and his partner, blanched and backing away from the inner garage door. "What is it?"

Isaac looks up to Scully, and she to him. "We should go," she says finally, grabbing Isaac's hand, leading them outside.

"What happened?"

"Locals," Scully mutters under her breath, still hefting the toolbox under one arm.

Mulder's brow knits together as he follows them out. He's found a wheelbarrow, more supplies for the boat, and she plops the empty gas can and the tools in alongside the boxes of spark plugs, trying to ignore the prickling fear at the base of her neck.

"Scully?"

"We're not alone out here," she says quietly, still locked on Isaac's troubled expression.

Mulder looks back toward the house—a simple white clapboard with blue trim, neatly trimmed lawn and shrubs on each side—and frowns. "Yeah, I get it. Let's go."

The walk back to town takes a couple hours, the wheelbarrow is clumsy and they take turns pushing it. By the time they cross the village borders into West Tisbury, Scully's hands are beginning to blister from the rough wood handles.

"Maybe we can pick up a car," Mulder ponders aloud, his limp becoming more and more visible as the walk draws out. "I still want to get out to the mainland before we head back."

By the time they arrive at the grocery store, temperatures have warmed to the point of discomfort. The light ocean breeze can't compete with the noon sun, and all three are sweaty and tired.

"Let's eat and rest up," Scully says, heading for the supermarket. It will be cooler inside, and they need water. "Isaac—"

"It's clear," he says, reading her mind. "There's no one in there."

There are a handful of cars in the parking lot, but no sign of any customers. The store is unlocked—"Most places are, around here," Mulder says—and they rummage through the dry goods and only slightly wilted produce, avoiding the frozen and refrigerated sections. The freezers are dark, the store hasn't had power for days.

 _Doesn't stink yet, but it will_ , Scully thinks, wrinkling her nose at the thought of cases full of rotting meat and dairy.

Isaac sits on one of the checkout conveyors, legs swinging as he eats a fistful of cereal straight from the box. Mulder is somewhere in the back; she can hear him throwing cans into a shopping cart.

"Glad to see your appetite's back," Scully remarks, biting into an apple, relishing the taste of the fresh fruit.

Isaac nods. "I do feel better," he says after a moment's pause. "But I don't like it here," he says softly.

"I know," she says. "I don't, either."

"There aren't any safe places now."

Her stomach turns, and she puts the apple down, suddenly not hungry. She takes a sip of water instead. "What do they sound like, Isaac?"

He stops mid-chew to think about this. "Like hissing," he says finally. "But I can understand it. I don't like that I can understand it."

She swallows hard. _I don't like that you can, either, kid._

He snorts. "I heard that."

She smiles a little. "You hear everything, don't you?"

He nods uncomfortably. "I try not to. It's harder now."

"I guess it keeps us honest."

"It doesn't, though," he says, a trace of sadness in his voice. "Even though you know I can hear you thinking the truth, you still lie."

She opens her mouth, then closes it again, struck dumb.

He ducks his head. "But I know you're just trying to make me feel better. To protect me. My mom used to do it, too," he sighs.

Scully presses her lips together. "It's what parents do."

"Yeah."

There's the sound of a cart—a very full, noisy cart—rounding the corner. "I always get the one with the sticky wheel," Mulder says, pulling up beside Scully and Isaac. "We're stocked, at least for a week or two. At some point soon we need to figure out how to get more food over."

Scully thinks, _because who knows how much longer we'll be able to make this trip without putting ourselves in serious danger._

"We're going to need a bigger boat," Scully says.

Mulder grins. " _Jaws_ , nice. But a wise man once told me, it's not the size of the boat that counts—it's the motion of the ocean."

"Mulder," Scully sighs, but her lips quirk upward in a smile when she sees Isaac grinning a little, too.

They set out to search for a vehicle, and they don't have to go far—there's a truck in the back of the parking lot, keys still in the ignition.

"Told ya," Mulder says. "Small town hospitality."

The truck is rusted, and the inspection sticker is three years out of date—reminding her once again of Mulder's red beater. She can see why no one's bothered to take it, but it starts on the first try.

They load up the boat with groceries and water, taking care to leave enough room for the rest of the supplies. The mainland is an additional hour and a half from the southern point of the Vineyard, so Mulder fills the boat's tank with gas and oil.

"That should get us through the next few days, I hope."

The breeze feels good against Scully's sun-pinked skin as the boat speeds across the water. She slathers on sunscreen while Mulder navigates. Isaac seems focused on a point off in the distance, but it's too loud for conversation.

They pull up at the dock outside Woods Hole. Isaac scrambles out of the boat, shading his eyes, then points toward the landing parking lot.

"Look!"

Scully looks toward where Isaac is gesturing. The lot is devoid of cars, but she can make out the shape of several deer—four of them, grazing along the shady grass at the edges.

 _Nature's reclamation_.

Watching the creatures move freely, undeterred by the presence of their human counterparts, gives her an unexpected chill.

"That's encouraging," Mulder says. "If the local wildlife isn't scattering, we may be safer than we think."

Scully grimaces. "I'm going to go check on the car," she says. "We should find a better place to hide it."

Mulder nods. "I'll load up."

She and Isaac help Mulder unload, then take the car in search of a more remote location.

"That should work," she says, pointing to a forested tree line about a quarter mile up the road. "We can park it there, cover it with brush."

Isaac nods, looking around, but she notices the tension in his shoulders has lessened since they left the Vineyard. She shows him how to strip the lower pine branches from nearby trees, layering them across the hood to create a visual shelter for the Prius, camouflaging it with the rest of the brush. When they're finished, she steps back to the road to survey their work.

"It'll do for now," she sighs, examining the hiding spot from all angles. "You can't see it from the road unless you're looking for it."

They walk back to Mulder, who sits precariously in the packed boat, shuffling their possessions around for balance.

"Always said I wanted to try low-riding, but this isn't what I had in mind," he quips.

She raises an eyebrow, scanning the boat, which is indeed lower than before—much lower. "Just take it slow."

They arrive at their new home as the sun is setting. Unloading takes the remainder of daylight, followed by another quick meal, and night soon finds them curled in bed. As promised, Mulder is asleep before his head hits the pillow, and Scully isn't far behind.

The next day dawns bright—brighter still when Scully opens the shutters to let the sunlight flood the living room and bedrooms. Every window looks out to sea; the perfect house for a former captain's daughter, she thinks.

She sets to dusting, wiping down shelves and furniture, setting aside someone else's family photos. She can hear Mulder and Isaac talking as they rummage around in the study.

"Hey, Doc, check this out," Isaac calls from downstairs. "We found something."

Scully wipes off her hands and makes her way to the living room, where Isaac and Mulder are peering into a lockbox.

"What is it?"

"A gun," Mulder says, holding up the revolver. "Government issue, .38 special."

"It was in the drawer," Isaac says. "Buried under a bunch of papers."

"You said these were friends of your family's?" Scully asks.

"My parents didn't have friends," Mulder murmurs, turning the gun over in his hands, checking the barrel. "They were Fibbies."

Scully looks up. "FBI?"

"Former," Mulder says. "The husband was one of the higher-ups, worked with my father at the State Department. I don't remember who, couldn't have been more than six at the time, but—"

"Mulder…"

"Yeah, the irony isn't lost on me," he says. That they could be staying in a house belonging to a member of government, possibly even the Syndicate, and therefore one of the men responsible for their ultimate downfall was difficult to swallow.

"Well," she sighs. "We may need it. Any rounds?"

Mulder holds up a small cardboard box of shells. "We should be able to get more in town."

"Let's clean it up, then we'll see if it works."

The gun is in near-perfect condition given its age. Mulder and Scully disassemble the weapon as Isaac looks on, then they take it behind the house for a test. It's windy, the waves crashing on the shore nearby are almost loud enough to drown out their words.

"Ladies first," Scully says, taking aim for a gnarled apple tree at the edge of the bluff.

"Wait—" Mulder interrupts, placing his hand on top of hers, pushing the gun down.

"What?"

"If this thing backfires, we're out a doctor. I should go first."

"Mulder—"

"You know I'm right," he insists. "At the end of the world, profilers are dispensable. Doctors aren't."

She sighs, but relinquishes the gun. "Fine. Isaac, plug your ears."

Mulder squints, takes aim, and fires. His first round misses the tree by several inches, but the second one nicks the wood to the left. "It's safe, at least. Ready to try, Scully?"

It's been months since she's held a gun, even longer since she's fired one, but muscle memory guides her hands. Her first shot hits the tree dead center, splintering the surface with a satisfying crack. Mulder gives her an approving look, and Isaac looks uncharacteristically impressed.

"You always were a better shot than me," Mulder grins.

She smiles. "Isaac? You want to try?"

The boy's eyes widen. "Me?"

"You probably won't need to use it, but you should know how."

He swallows and nods, and Scully can't help but smile at his nervousness.

"Doggett showed me a little," he admits. "But I wasn't allowed to fire in the shooting range."

They show him how to take the proper stance, how to hold the weapon and check the safety, where and how to aim.

"It's going to kick back hard," Mulder warns. "Identify your target, hold it steady…don't forget to breathe."

The boy does, firing his first round well away from the tree. His hands are shaking a little.

"That's OK. Takes a lot of practice. Try again."

This time the bullet grazes the tree. He sighs in frustration, but Scully corrects his stance. "One more time. Keep trying."

He frowns, holding the revolver in both hands, concentrating. There's a shift in energy; even the waves seem to quiet. It's no more than a half-second pause, the length of a single breath, but all three of them feel it. This time, when he fires, the bullet hits the tree dead center.

"Lucky shot?" Mulder quips, watching the boy carefully. Scully looks back and forth between them, questioning, as Isaac's finger tightens on the trigger once more. This time his aim is off, she can see his grip is weak, but the bullet hits the tree in the center regardless. He lowers the pistol slowly, shakily.

The significance of the event occurs to her when she examines the tree, finding the second bullet lodged within the first's indentation, as though it were placed there by hand.

Isaac looks stricken rather than proud. "That was cool, thanks," he mumbles, his voice flat. "I'm gonna go back inside."

"He directed it," Mulder murmurs as they watch Isaac retreat.

Scully nods tightly, tracing the goosebumps on her arms that have nothing to do with the breeze.

Dinner is penne with a jar of sauce, garlic bread, and sautéed vegetables—their first hot meal since arriving at the island, a veritable feast.

"This calls for a celebration," Mulder says, withdrawing a bottle of wine from one of the cupboards while Scully frowns at the slightly overdone green beans and carrots browning in the sauce pan.

She arches an eyebrow. "I didn't see you bring that in."

"I didn't; found it in the back of the pantry," he admits, his fingers leaving prints in the dust on the bottle. He pours a glass for her, a slightly larger glass for him, then looking at a third glass as though he's not sure.

"Let him, if he wants," Scully sighs, looking out to the living room where Isaac is reading on the couch. "We've already corrupted him with firearms, robbery, and grand theft auto. What's a little glass of wine?"

"I like your thinkin', Red," he murmurs, pouring a small amount of the ruby liquid for Isaac.

The study holds another treasure that Isaac overlooked in his initial explorations, lacking a sense for life's finer, more antiquated luxuries—a record player and an extensive collection of vinyl.

"He may have been a spook, but the guy had good taste," Mulder says, pawing through the records. After dinner, he moves the turntable to the living room and hooks it to the old wooden speakers. That night, he sits on the floor of the living room amongst stacks of vinyl.

"Hey, Scully, found your favorite."

"Oh?"

He holds up an orange sleeve. "Three Dog Night."

She snorts and shakes her head at the memory of a long, grueling night in the Florida wilderness. Mulder places the record on the turntable, and the telltale scratching of needle on vinyl is soon followed by the harmonious melody of "Joy to the World."

Mulder grins at his partner, extending his hand. "Dance with me, Scully."

She raises an eyebrow. "Mulder, no."

"C'mon."

She sighs and rolls her eyes, but grasps his hand anyway, letting him pull her into a sloppy, off-balance twirl. She cries out in surprise when he dips her—not very low, given his weak knee, but enough to make her flail and laugh despite herself.

For a few minutes, she forgets that the house they're holed up in is not their own, that the world outside is a changed and terrifying landscape, and that their place in it is uncertain.

"You dance about as well as you sing, Scully," Mulder remarks, but he's grinning, pleased that she's humoring him. He catches her off-guard, ducking his head, kissing her until her sense of balance is thoroughly gone and she has to wrap her hands around his neck.

She catches a glimpse of Isaac, who directs a disapproving scowl at his book.

"We have an audience," she murmurs.

"Let him watch. It's emotionally healthy for kids to see their parents—"

"Making out?"

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" he grins, nipping at her lips with his, until she pulls away with a gentle rebuke.

"Save it for later."

That night in bed, Mulder reaches over to twirl the ring on her finger, watching as it catches the light. Rather than comfort her, the gesture makes her chest constrict, a reminder of how much they stand to lose.

"You and Isaac seem to be copacetic," Mulder murmurs into the nape of her neck.

"Funny how an apocalypse can put the rest of your life's problems in perspective."

She feels him snort lightly against her shoulder, kissing the spot below the base of her neck, where the chip remains just beneath the surface of her skin.

He doesn't offer promises of hope, doesn't soothe her with false encouragement. His arm rests steady around her waist the way it had when they'd danced, and for now, that's promise enough.


	4. Chapter 4

JUNE 15, 2015

11:27 A.M.

WOODS HOLE, MASSACHUSETTS

As days pass, the island house begins to feel more like a home, although the supply runs to Martha's Vineyard and the mainland remain haunting and unsettling. It's the middle of June; the island should be crowded with tourists, but instead it's dead and silent. They have yet to find another survivor.

They procure a larger boat during one of these treks, making it easier to transport supplies. Isaac and Scully rig a system of rain barrels for collecting runoff, to be boiled and used for drinking in the event they get stranded. The solar panels provide plenty of electricity, but they're not well protected, and Scully worries about relying on them.

"The islands don't usually get much hurricane activity, but we can't be too cautious," Mulder says. They stock up on candles, and keep the smaller boat, bringing it ashore as a spare.

"We can't stay through the winter, Mulder," Scully says in the midst of a supply run to a grocer in Woods Hole.

Mulder looks up from the cans of tuna he's been rummaging through, as though this revelation is unwelcome, but not unexpected. He nods, shrugs.

"I've thought about that. We could head north in the fall, maybe up as far as New Brunswick or Nova Scotia. There's some remote territory up there, and the houses are winter-ready."

"Yeah, but can we make it that far?" she says under her breath.

"That's what I'm worried about," he says. "We can skirt some of the cities, take back roads, but suburbs are just as likely to be overrun. We'd probably travel easier in the south, but it's warm there. We're better off where it's cold; the cold is a deterrent."

She considers this as they continue their slow walk up and down the aisles, holding her breath as they pass the meat case. It smells more terrible than she could have imagined, with its pounds of ground beef and pork left to rot in the heat and humidity.

Isaac gives them a funny look when they find him in the next aisle, picking through the chips and pretzels.

"Ready, kid?" Mulder says, grabbing a bag of Doritos for himself.

Isaac frowns, troubled. "Yeah."

They're heading for the dock when Isaac stops in his tracks in front of a house. The yard is overrun with dandelions and long grass, the lawn in a state of neglect with no one to tend it.

The vacant look in Isaac's eyes isn't unusual; they've seen it before, usually when he's trying not to hear the creatures stirring. He hasn't said anything since that first encounter in the garage on the Vineyard, but he doesn't have to; the presence of the infected are commonplace. Isaac is their human barometer.

He's stopped ahead of them, and Scully can tell from his posture that this time is different.

"Isaac? What is it? What do you hear?"

The boy swallows hard but doesn't respond, simply continues staring at the house in his alarming way. Mulder draws the .38 from his belt, keeping its muzzle to the ground.

"What is it, Isaac?" he asks, casting a sideways glance at their son, who stays rooted in place.

"This one hatched," he whispers in a voice so low and heavy with dread that they almost can't hear it.

Ice runs in Scully's veins. Before she can register what's happening, Mulder is on the porch and trying the door.

"Mulder? What the hell—"

"Gonna check it out," he mutters. "Stay here."

Now it's Isaac's turn to give her a look, and she turns back to the door where her partner is already out of sight, then again to her son, torn between them.

"Fuck that," she growls, following Mulder into the dark recesses with Isaac at her side.

The inside smells much like the meat section of the grocery store—dank, heavy with dust and rotten food. They collectively wince at the smell.

"Upstairs," Isaac says, his words dry and grating as sand.

Mulder heads for the stairs, gun still drawn, but Isaac stops him.

"Let me go."

"No."

"If it's still there, I can protect us," he says, in a voice too old for his fifteen years, then looks down at the revolver. "That thing isn't going to help."

They don't ask how he knows this, and they don't try to stop him as he ascends the staircase. Scully glares at her partner, but he just offers a helpless shrug and follows their son.

"Right behind you, kid," Mulder whispers as they reach the first landing. Isaac stops for a second, closes his eyes as if listening, then takes a right.

There are two rooms on either side of the hall, the first one empty—the door hangs ajar, revealing a neatly made bed with a quilt spread over the top, and a bureau. Save for a layer of dust, everything looks in order.

The other room is closed, and this is the one in front of which Isaac stops. Sweat beads across Scully's brow; it's too warm, claustrophobic in this house. The distinct odor coming from behind the bedroom door doesn't help.

Isaac pauses once again, casting a wide-eyed look over his shoulder. She can feel the fear and adrenaline coming off him, and Scully gives him what she hopes is a reassuring nod. "You don't have to do this, you know."

He takes a sharp breath and a shake of his head. "Might as well get it over with," he says, the echo of his father's wry voice in his words. "Going."

Mulder swallows hard and raises the revolver at Isaac's side. "Got your back."

The door swings open without a sound, and what follows will forever be burned in her memory as the beginning of the end.

There is no looming creature, no skeletal gray frame with black eyes the color of nightmares. There is no attack, no gunshot, no blast of energy and light. Whatever thing might have birthed out of the man had already escaped it's dead host's womb, leaving nothing but a rotting shell.

There is only a man, or something that used to be a man, lying on the bed in front of them in a state of repose. His features are gruesome and stark, frozen in a scream, as though he'd been conscious for the birth, there to witness this thing that took hold of his body and ate him alive from within.

The room stinks of rotten flesh, and it takes her a moment to realize the insistent buzzing in her ears can be attributed to hundreds of flies that blacken the windows and flood the ceiling, though the gaping hole in the man's midsection is untouched.

 _Even the flies won't touch the body_ , Scully thinks dully.

Isaac stumbles backwards blindly; his body hits hers and he lets out a soft, horrified shriek. Without thinking, she takes him by the shoulders, turning him around so he can't look at the scene. He buries his face in her shoulder with a silent, anguished cry. Over the din of her own terrified thoughts, she can feel Mulder tugging her into the hallway. Part of her—the old Scully, the FBI agent—wants to stay and examine the body for evidence. The other part wants to take Isaac and run as far away from this place as they possibly can.

The mother wins.

She doesn't remember how they get downstairs, or out of the house. She doesn't remember pushing their cart back to the park, or the way Isaac's hand clung, clammy and damp, to hers. She doesn't remember Mulder's steady footfalls at her side, watching for signs of life behind them, gun still drawn.

 _we're not safe here we're not safe anywhere_

It's not until they get to the boat access that she stops, collapsing to her knees in the middle of the lawn and pressing her forehead to the clean, cool grass. She tries to breathe and finds she can't, her heart won't stop pounding, her lungs won't expand to take in the air.

 _it's real it's real oh god it's happening_

She's startled when she feels the hand on her shoulder, even more so to discover it's Isaac and not Mulder who stands before her. His look of staunch fear has been replaced with something else—sympathy? Empathy? Curiosity?—but she can't define it, only sees the reflection of her thoughts in his eyes.

 _What are we going to do?_

Mulder is kneeling beside her, offering water, his face drawn and pale. "You OK?" he asks gently, even though he knows the answer.

 _We all know the answer now._

It rains that night. The humid air curls Scully's hair at the ends, the dark clouds rolling outside match her own inner turmoil. She tucks her legs beneath her body on the couch with a cup of tea, a blanket spread across her lap, but neither warm her. The tea grows cold before she can take her first sip, and her book lies untouched beside her.

"Hi," Mulder says, leaning in the kitchen door, his earlier humor diminished, eyes dark and brooding.

She nods in silent greeting, holds up the mug of tea to offer him some, but he shakes his head.

"Figured you'd need something stronger than that," he says.

"I considered it," she breathes. "But we should stay focused. Especially now."

"What are you thinking?"

Her back straightens, she meets his gaze with her own. "I'm sorry about my reaction today; it was unnecessary. I panicked."

Mulder smirks in disbelief. "Jesus, Scully, is that what you're worried about? Looking unprofessional?"

She presses her lips taut. "I never would have run away from a scene like that before."

"You don't have to prove anything to me. You never have."

She shakes his comments off, anger bubbling to the surface like lava. "We don't have the luxury of weakness. We've been in denial…all this time, time I could have spent researching, all these weeks pretending nothing had changed. We can't do that anymore."

He swallows hard, nodding slowly, understanding.

"Two weeks," she says tonelessly. "Given the condition of the body, I think it's safe to assume the…virus," she says, faltering, unable to bring herself to call the thing what it is, "…the virus…left its host within the last two weeks. Which makes the gestation time anywhere from two to three weeks, depending on the time of onset."

"We've seen this before. The gestation time is wrong, though," he murmurs, the intensity of his gaze sinking beneath her hardest outer layers like a soothing balm.

"Maybe this one was a late bloomer," she sighs. "But we have to assume more of them have already spawned."

Mulder nods, biting at the tip of his thumb.

She fixes him with a pointed stare. "I want to go back. I need to examine the body."

Mulder's lips part in surprise, but he doesn't protest. The look in her eyes doesn't leave room for it.

"We need more information about what we're dealing with, and some of the answers are in that body," she continues. "I can't do a full autopsy but I can examine the scene, the extent of the tissue damage, maybe I can get a more accurate assessment of time of death…"

"Do you think it will come back?" he says, with a look that suggests he wants to say more.

She sighs, "I didn't see any evidence that the organism had returned, I think we would have noticed. The house looked untouched.

"But Isaac shouldn't come. He can't go through that again," she says, lowering her voice. "We can't protect him, Mulder," she whispers. "Every drive, every…every instinct I have is telling me to, but I know I can't keep him safe."

A laden pause as she sets her jaw, takes a deep breath, "But I can gather information. I can study this thing. We have to try to find a way to…to beat this. Not for us, but for him."

Something shines in her partner's eyes—love, perhaps, or recognition—and she holds his gaze while the seconds tick away.

There's a cry from upstairs, jarring them from their shared silence, and Mulder is on the steps before Scully can extract herself from the blanket wound around her lap.

"Isaac? Isaac!"

He's in bed, pale, drenched with sweat, his body arched at an awkward angle, like a tightly strung bow. Scully has a vision, a ghost from their recent past. A different bed, a different time, but the same dull fear on his face, sweat on his brow, as the virus wreaked havoc on his body.

He's gasping for breath, while Mulder sits at the edge of the bed, attempting to calm him.

"Hey, buddy."

It takes a moment for the boy to speak. "Dreams," he rasps. "Just dreams."

Scully presses her lips together hard, until the pink flesh turns white, and turns to get the boy a drink of water. It's the least she can do.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks when she comes back.

He shakes his head, but his voice is quiet. "Stay?"

She swallows hard, struggling against her own carefully constructed emotions, feeling the weight of her words to Mulder as she takes a seat next to their son and lays a careful hand on his shoulder.

 _Not for us, but for him._


	5. Chapter 5

JUNE 16, 2015

8:45 A.M.

WOODS HOLE, MASSACHUSETTS

They depart early the next morning. Scully carries the toolbox, with a few modifications—she's performed enough autopsies in her strange career to know how to make do. Pliers and a sharp kitchen knife will work in a pinch.

 _Won't have to worry about the Y-incision_ , she thinks darkly.

The house is unchanged, but the door was left ajar in their rushed escape. It hangs open, beckoning. They stand at the end of the driveway, time stretching out, until Scully finally takes a step toward the house.

"Don't," Isaac says finally, pleading. "Don't go in there. You're going to lie again," he whispers, and her heart sinks, because he's right.

"I'll be fine," she assures him. "I did this all the time, before."

"It's not the same," he fires back immediately, eyes shining. "It's not the same as before."

"Isaac—"

"I know. 'You have to.'" He sighs, an angry, disheartened sound.

The boy turns his back in frustration. She looks to Mulder, but all he offers is a weak shrug.

"You have the gun?"

Mulder nods. "If anything happens in there, Scully—"

She gives a terse shake of her head. "If anything happens, you take Isaac, and you run. Take the boat and go. I'll be fine."

She walks away before he can argue, knowing he will if given the chance.

"She'll be OK," she hears Mulder mutter under his breath as she turns her back.

The inside is as they left it; silent, the air thick, thicker still at the top of the stairs. The bedroom door at the end of the hall is open now. She hears the haphazard buzzing of flies, smells the cloying stench of decay.

The back of her neck tingles as she enters the bedroom, taking in the scene, noticing the details she hadn't before. The closet to her left, the door open, revealing a row of shirts and shoes and storage containers. There's an open book on the floor, bookmark tucked in the crease of the binding, never to be finished. On the nightstand are a handful of tissues, several of them bloody, and a window on the far side of the room is partly open, curtains swaying slightly.

 _Doesn't explain the lack of air in here_ , she thinks, each breath more foul than the next.

 _Blood on the floor. On the sill, the curtains. It went outside…_

A glance out the window reveals a smaller bloody pool on the porch roof, but no prints, no sign of direction. The frame is splintered around the edges, and as she gets close, she notices the window is cracked. There's less than twelve inches' clearance.

 _It's small. Still young._

She turns back to the subject of her investigation, grabbing a rag from her pocket to tie around her nose and mouth. She pushes aside her disgust to get a closer look at the body, the cavern from which the creature escaped.

 _Ragged edges around the wound…postmortem lacerations…claws…_

The man's face remains frozen in horror, blackened veins running down his face and neck. His chest has been all but eaten away, the ribs folded outward, his chest cracked down the middle. The abdomen is completely missing.

She snaps on her gloves, reaching in to pull up on the rib cage, and the bones crack like twigs with the light pressure.

 _Osteomalacia._

The flesh is slimy from the heat and decay, and she frowns as she examines the interior cavity, gloved fingers skating along the surface of the man's inner spine.

 _No organs. Partial lower intestine, but everything else is gone._

 _Eaten._

She quickly realizes the rate of decay is too difficult to determine, given the surrounding temperature.

 _Damn. Get samples anyway._

She squints into the body cavity, using the dull edge of a knife to scrape small pieces of flesh from the bones, depositing them in plastic sandwich bags, dating the seals with a black marker.

 _I'll grab a cooler from the store…_

There's a scratching sound to her left.

She whirls around, heart thudding a terrible echo in her chest, her tongue suddenly thick, stuck to the roof of her mouth.

"Who's there?"

No response.

 _What if it came back? What if it's watching? You didn't even bring the gun._

The closet is still open, still tidy. _No blood_ , she thinks wildly. _There was no trail, it can't be here._

Her heart's rhythm remains unconvinced.

"Who is it?" she demands, approaching the closet. Its contents are partly obscured by the sliding doors, the darkness beckoning her in.

 _Run._

Curiosity is a powerful mistress. She reaches out with an uncertain hand and pushes at the sliding door. It screams along its metal track and lands at the opposite side with an angry thunk of metal on wood.

 _Empty._

"Scully?"

She jumps, letting out a scream that sounds more like a strangled whistle. Mulder is standing in the doorway with the gun, wide eyed, taking in the sight of her. She realizes her breathing is erratic, her hands are cold and damp.

"You OK?"

"Yeah," she breathes, glancing over her shoulder at the body. "Yeah…got spooked for a second there."

"Almost done?"

She nods tersely, pushing past her partner in search of fresh air and light, desperate to feel the sun on her face and the wind in her hair, to wash off the moment like a bad stain.

"Did you find anything?" he persists, following her out to where Isaac is waiting for them.

"Very little," she mutters, stripping off the bloody gloves.

Isaac is standing at the edge of the driveway, and she gives him a reassuring smile, the best she can muster under the circumstances. She turns to Mulder. "I'm going to need access to a lab."

He doesn't ask what she needs, or why. "The hospital is probably ten miles from here. Might be a little crowded, though."

"Crowded?"

"Bodies," Isaac says, finishing Mulder's thought for him. "Lots of them."

"No good," Scully says, then has an idea. "What about research centers? Is there a university in town…maybe a medical lab?"

Mulder shakes his head. "The only lab is connected to the hospital if I remember…but there's a private college on the other side of town. Barton, I think."

"Do they have a pre-med facility?"

"Yeah, but they won't have power. The emergency backups for those places only last so long, they'll be dead by now. Isaac and I might be able to hook up a generator…"

"Better than nothing," she says. "How far?"

"Fifteen miles, maybe twenty. School was in session when the infection hit, the campus will be crawling with the virus," he points out.

"I think we have to take that chance," she says. Isaac, listening to their conversation, doesn't look convinced.

"Alright," Mulder says. "But this time we're coming with you."

They unearth her car from its hiding place, relieved to find it untouched. It's been a matter of weeks, but already the car feels foreign to her. The interior smells stale and sweet when she opens the door.

 _From a different world._

Mulder drives, navigating the streets by way of memory and intuition, and Scully watches the empty landscape. The only sign of life is a stray dog, pawing through a trash bin at the edge of the suburb. It doesn't even look up at the sound of the passing car.

As they pull up the winding, tree-lined campus entrance, Isaac fidgets, looking around, becoming more agitated. Scully reaches back over the seat, finds his hand, squeezing it for reassurance—hers or his, she's not sure.

"Not that one," he says, looking out the window at what must be one of the dorms. "There are tons in there."

Scully glances over to her partner, questioning, and he pulls away, taking a right toward the campus center.

"Think this is the science building," Mulder says, pulling up to a large, modern structure, all windows and shining steel beams. It stands out from the rest of the older New England brick like a sore thumb. "If there's a lab, it'll be in here."

"I think it's clear," Isaac says, squinting. "It's getting harder to tell."

"We'll just have to be careful," Mulder says, eyeing his partner. "Stick together."

The building is new; despite recent neglect, the interior gleams, smelling of fresh paint with an undertone of stale dust. The directory on the wall next to the entrance reads MED SCI LAB in white block letters.

"Fourth floor," Scully murmurs, looking for a stairwell door. "Isaac? You OK?"

"Yeah," he says. "But let me go first."

"I don't think—"

"Let him," Mulder says, cutting Scully off. "Kid's better armed than we are," he says, gesturing to the gun held loosely in his hand.

The lab is located at the far end of the second-floor hall, a generous corner room with three long benches and tables, research littering each surface in various stages of completion.

"It's a forensics lab," she says, eyes shining as she surveys the room. "It's basic, but…I can do a viral analysis and compare tissue samples, run a PCR."

"They must have been connected with the local PD," Mulder muses. He looks around, running his finger along the dusty surface of a work table. "These places usually have a back-up generator to keep stuff cold in the event of an outage. It probably ran out of gas weeks ago…but if we can refuel it, you'll have a few hours."

He's right; they find the generator at the back of the building behind a padlocked enclosure, the fuel indicator pointing to _E_.

"Just needs gas," Mulder says, examining the panel. "Isaac? Grab the can from the car. We should have enough to start this thing."

Isaac nods, his footsteps quickly retreating across the pavement. He returns with the red container, gasoline sloshing, as Mulder finds the generator's input line.

"I'm going back up," Scully says. "We should unplug the equipment so it doesn't drain the supply."

In the lab, she ties back her long hair in a messy bun, donning a pair of gloves. Within minutes, there's a whirring as the generator kicks in, and the lights flicker on. Mulder and Isaac are soon crowded in the doorway, pleased with their progress, but Scully has only just started.

"I need blood samples." She holds up two empty vials, waggling them at Mulder and Isaac.

Mulder raises an eyebrow. "That wasn't part of the deal, Doc."

She ignores this. "You first."

"And why am I letting you play vampire again?" he asks as she wraps his arm with a rubber tourniquet, prodding at his inner elbow until she finds a vein.

"I need healthy samples. If I'm going to find out why we're immune, I need to compare the infected tissue samples I collected with our blood."

"Me, too?" Isaac asks, visibly reluctant.

She nods, then turns back to Mulder, who looks equally uncomfortable.

"Phlebotomy wasn't your best subject," he teases.

"It wasn't," she agrees, still focused on finding the right vein. "But I had a ninety-five percent success rate. I think you'll survive."

"Do I get a sticker when I'm done?" he asks with a smirk, then a soft hiss as the needle pierces the skin.

Blood snakes along the plastic tubing, and she looks up at her partner with a mischievous smile. "First try."

When the vial is full, she labels the sample with Mulder's name, the date, then turns to their son. "Isaac? You're next."

"Alright," he sighs, jumping up onto one of the benches, long legs dangling over the side.

"Just going to put the tourniquet on so—"

"Yeah, I know the drill," he says, frowning, and Scully remembers that he'd spent most of his early childhood being poked and prodded by doctors. Remorse, like the needle, stings for a second.

"My right arm's better," he says, flexing to show her, pointing at a pinprick of scar tissue tucked in the crease of his inner elbow. The vein lies right beneath the scar.

 _Marked like a grave._

She swallows hard. "Thanks," she says, apologetic, swabbing the pinprick with an alcohol pad.

"You did better than most of the nurses used to," he remarks, pressing a piece of gauze to the draw site when she's done. "Do I get a sticker, too?" he asks, a cautious twinkle in his blue eyes, and Scully can't help but smile.

"No, but you can help me."

She shows him how to wrap and tie the tourniquet around her upper arm, tight enough to pinch. It takes three tries to get the needle in her own arm.

"I'll get better," she sighs, letting Isaac unwrap the tourniquet as the blood spurts into the vial. "I'd like to stay here tonight," she continues, surveying the room. "It will take a few hours for the tests to complete."

Mulder nods. "Isaac and I can grab some supplies for the night. We'll stay up—"

"You don't have to," Scully interrupts, then smiles half-heartedly. "You can sleep; I'll need to be awake to watch the equipment anyway."

He tilts his head up. "You be OK here for a few?"

She nods. "Yeah, I think if there were anything here, we'd have seen it by now. Leave the gun, though."

He does, and she tucks the weapon into her back pocket.

The coolers are full of old samples, and she cleans them out, dumping everything into bio-hazard bags, replacing them with her own bagged tissue and blood samples.

She's looking for supplies in the rear closet when the hair on the back of her neck stands up. Her hand freezes over a new box of microscope slides, her heart pounds with an extreme sense of deja vu.

 _They're watching us._

She turns, hand going for the gun on instinct, but the lab is empty. There's no sound, only the cold prickle of fear. She backs out of the closet, scanning the open room, but there's nothing to see except the long tables, a desk in the corner, a sheaf of papers spilling out from one drawer. She checks the hallway outside the lab, but there's no one; just the silence of an empty world.

"Mulder? That you?"

No response.

Her imagination doesn't have to travel far; the proof is sitting in the cooler, samples crawling with it. She waits, standing perfectly still for a good five minutes, but nothing changes, and eventually her heart resumes its normal rhythm.

The work is methodical, a welcome distraction. She prepares the slides, blood and tissue smeared across the glass, and labels them with tape and a marker. Combined under the microscope, the infected blood samples mingle with the uninfected, leaving black streaks in swirls of red and pink.

She grabs a nearby notebook, ripping out the first six pages of research, replacing it with her notes. Mulder's sample is the same; she watches as the red cells seem to repel the blackened ones, forcing them to the outer edges in a jerky cellular dance.

She watches with a mixture of awe and sadness. Anger rises swiftly within her; anger at the people who knew what was coming and did nothing to stop it. Rage at those who had the cure and kept it for their own selfish devices. She takes a breath, realizes she's clenching the pen in her hand, staring blankly at her notes without seeing them. Her vision is blurred with hot tears.

She fumbles to her right for Isaac's slide, about to put it under the microscope when she hears Mulder's familiar voice carry through the open window, their footsteps in the hall.

"We got mats and sleeping bags," Isaac announces, throwing two dark green rolls onto the floor.

"See anything out there?" she asks, brushing her eyes with the back of her hand, hoping her voice doesn't betray her unease.

"No…why?"

"It's nothing." Mulder gives her a curious look, but doesn't press her. She glances down to find him carrying a black bag. "Your laptop?"

"Yeah, the building has a dedicated connection. We may be able to get online. If nothing else, it's a Minesweeper tournament to the death," he smirks.

Scully smiles back, the vise grip around her chest lessening. "Glad you're finally putting all those years in the bullpen to good use."

Mulder and Isaac set up the computer on one of the lab benches, connecting it to the jack in the wall, while Scully turns back to the microscope, peering at Isaac's sample, but the slide's contents are black.

 _That's not right. Must have mixed the wrong blood._

A new slide reveals the same thing, however, and her brow furrows in concern, wondering if this means the infection is dormant, or getting stronger.

 _But what if it's neither? What if it's part of him now?_ her mind whispers.

In the background, Mulder and Isaac go back and forth over the laptop.

"Here, you need to put in an IP address to bypass the proxy," Isaac says, fingers tapping at the keyboard.

"Are you sure you didn't take lessons from Frohicke?"

Isaac snorts, "Nah, this is kids' stuff. I did it at school when I wanted to get around the filter in the computer lab."

"I don't think I'm supposed to condone that kind of behavior."

The boy shrugs, still typing. "We need to find a proxy that's still running…"

Scully shakes her head, and begins preparing the solution for a PCR.

An hour later, there's an exuberant, "Yes!" from their corner of the room, and Scully looks up through her goggles.

"We're online," Mulder says. "And so is Google."

"Their servers must not be affected. Facebook is still up," Isaac mutters after a pause, squinting at the screen.

Mulder frowns. "Since when do you have Facebook?"

"Everyone does," the boy scoffs, and Mulder catches Scully's eye, questioning. She shrugs.

"Twitter is, too," Isaac continues fingers swift on the keys. "Looks like there are a few people talking," he says.

"You have a Twitter account," Mulder says, still in disbelief.

"Of course," Isaac sighs impatiently. "Look, someone posted three days ago."

"What?"

The boy points at the screen. "See the timestamp? Three days ago. Talking about the virus."

"Can you tell where they are?"

"London, looks like."

Sure enough, Isaac clicks a link, and the screen is flooded with messages from around the globe.

 _Other people_ , Scully thinks, unsure if the thought is comforting or distressing. She walks to the computer, looking over Mulder's shoulder.

"That's from Japan," Mulder says, pointing, "There's another report from Texas. There should be thousands of messages like this."

"Not many survivors," Scully says quietly. "Or they're like us, and don't have access."

"Should I post something?" Isaac asks, glancing up at Mulder.

Her partner doesn't miss a beat. "No."

"Why?"

Mulder bites the inside of his cheek. "We don't know who's monitoring these networks," he says in a low voice. "For all we know, they're keeping the servers running as bait."

Isaac looks disappointed. "But—"

"He's right," Scully interrupts. "Too risky."

"We should contact the Gunmen," Mulder says.

"Don't you think they would have tried to contact us by now, Mulder?"

He doesn't respond, turning back to the computer, this time looking more forlorn than excited about the prospect. Reaching behind the table, he unplugs the computer from the wall.

"Hey!"

"We can't take the chance they're monitoring these networks," Mulder sighs, tossing the cable aside with more force than is necessary. "Let the Minesweeper tournament commence."

Scully leaves them to their game and turns back to her work, the routine coming back to her slowly. The PCR is almost comforting in its predictability, one thing that hasn't changed. She separates the materials into vials with careful concentration, swearing under her breath when she messes up the ratio of enzymes and tissue.

It's late by the time she removes the first set of samples from the thermocycler. Isaac is already curled up on the floor in his sleeping bag, and Mulder sits alone, his face drawn in the glow of the laptop.

"You OK?" she says quietly, resting a tentative hand on his shoulder.

He spins around on the lab stool, rubbing at his face. "Yeah…I…yeah, I'm OK," he says. If Isaac were awake, he could hear the lie in his thoughts, but Scully hears it in his voice. She reaches out, ruffling Mulder's hair, and he closes his eyes at the contact, simple and intimate.

"You should get some rest."

Mulder nods and stands, stretching, the same distant look on his face.

"Wake me if anything comes up. I mean it," he adds, rolling his sleeping back out next to Isaac's.

"I will, promise. Night, Mulder."

"Night, Doc."

Within minutes, Mulder's quiet snores drift from the front of the lab. The room is dark, save for a dim light over her workbench, and Scully dozes to the hum of the equipment at her elbow. She can't shake the feeling of being watched, and each time she drifts off, she snaps awake with the uncomfortable sensation that they are not alone. The gun is within reach, but she doesn't pick it up, refusing to succumb to her own paranoia.

There's a groan from the floor, Isaac tossing fitfully in his sleeping bag. She creeps past Mulder to kneel beside the boy, and places her hand on his forehead, finding it cool but clammy.

"Isaac," she whispers, stroking her thumb across his brow. "Isaac, hon, wake up."

His eyes flutter open, staring blankly, and she pulls back with a gasp. They're black, murky, clouded with ink.

 _Oh, oh no—_

She reaches out to look more closely, but he flinches, blinking, and his eyes are clear. He frowns at her sleepily, not yet awake, and turns over.

 _It's just the shadows._

She shudders, fixated on his eyes, but they don't open again, and soon his breathing evens.

She compares the results of the DNA sequences, the films muddy in the weak morning light. Isaac wakes first, rubbing at his eyes, squinting in her direction. "Doc?"

"Morning," she says, distracted. "Sleep well?"

"Floor's hard," he mumbles, yawning. "Did your test work?"

"It confirms my suspicions. The virus is part of us, but inactive." She frowns, switching to a different sheet.

"But the blood samples didn't turn out. Specifically yours, Isaac. Either I did something wrong, or I'm not understanding the results, but there should be two unique DNA strands—the virus and the human base."

"But there's not?" Isaac asks, looking over her shoulder at the films.

"No," Scully sighs. "There's only one. It's possible the samples were tainted during the procedure somehow."

Mulder's voice rumbles from the floor, where he's been listening. "Unless the virus merged with the DNA," he finishes for her.

Scully raises a skeptical eyebrow in her partner's direction. "That would mean the virus doesn't just attack DNA, but fundamentally changes it. That's not unheard of, but it's very, very rare in nature…and even then, it doesn't happen to the entire DNA structure, only small parts of it."

"I think we're outside the realm of natural here, Scully."

She purses her lips. "Mulder—"

He looks more amused than contrary. "You've seen what those things can do, you've seen how advanced they are. Maybe they alter the DNA to make the environment more hospitable."

"Mulder, if that's true…" she trails off, stealing a glance at Isaac.

"Then I've…changed?" the boy says. "You mean it…changed me?"

"We don't know that for sure," Scully says, the words coming out too fast to be true.

"It's what you're thinking, though," he says weakly.

"I know, I know," she sighs. "But…but I'm tired," she admits, sagging a bit, suddenly feeling every moment of missed sleep. "We should go back. I need some time to make sense of this."

There's a tense pause, and for a moment she thinks Isaac will object, will demand answers she doesn't yet have.

But he doesn't, and instead turns, gathering his sleeping bag into a tight roll.

As their boat pulls away from shore, Scully feels a tug at her subconscious, anxiety replaced by relief as they get further from the mainland.

At the house, she collapses on the couch, intending to close her eyes for few minutes, but she sleeps until the light has left the sky. She wakes with a blanket draped across her legs, her hair pressing sleep lines into her cheek.

Groaning, she sits up, squinting. Mulder is in the kitchen, clicking away on his laptop; her notebook sits in front of him, closed. His hair is wet, freshly showered, and she catches a whiff of his shampoo.

"How long have I been out?" she says, yawning, leaning in the doorway.

"Hey, sleepyhead. 'Bout nine hours, give or take."

"Mmm. What are you doing?"

He looks up with a wry smile. "The book isn't going to write itself."

She returns his smile. The invisible book had been a running joke between them for years. "There's an X-File if there ever was one. You're actually writing it?"

"Uh huh. Turns out I'm pretty good, too. Too bad there's no one around to read it," he mutters.

"I'll read it," she says.

"You lived it," he points out. "Most of it, anyway."

"All the more reason for me to read it…make sure you're telling the truth."

"Ahh. The truth," he sighs.

"The ever-constant pursuit," she murmurs, watching him stretch and shift uncomfortably in his seat.

"Closer than that."

She goes quiet, letting the weight of the day's discoveries settle around her. Mulder is watching her, waiting for a reaction, but there's too much to process.

"Isaac?" she asks, lowering her eyes, signaling the change of subject.

"Upstairs, I think," Mulder says after a pause.

"Ah, of course," she says lightly, reaching for the notebook. "I'm going to go over this with a fresh eye."

He nods, still watching her closely, teasing a little. "Let me know if you need someone to tell you you're wrong."

"Thought that was my job," she mutters, flipping the wire-bound pages as she makes her way up the stairs.

Half an hour later, she sits cross-legged on the bed, examining the films from Isaac's blood work.

 _This can't be right…_

She counts the segments one by one, but no matter how hard she tries, she can't make the printouts make sense.

 _I would have noticed if—_

"Doc?"

Isaac stands in the doorway, a dark, expectant look on his face.

She takes off her reading glasses, forcing a smile. "What is it, Isaac?"

"You were thinking about me."

Her smile falters a little. "Yeah…I was. Have a seat."

He does, climbing onto the end of the bed, mirroring her pose.

"You think the vaccine changed me," he says somberly.

"I don't…we don't know that for sure."

"That's not what you're thinking."

She swallows. "I think…I think regardless of what the tests show, you're still alive, and that's what's important right now."

"You're worried, though. You're worried the vaccine hurt me."

She blinks. "I'm always worried about you," she whispers, a careful confession directed at her paperwork.

"You don't hide it as well as he does," the boy says, nodding downward, to where they can hear Mulder working in the kitchen. "So what do we do now?"

"I need to go back again," she says. "I can't trust these results. If I can replicate them, that will give us more evidence."

"I thought you'd say that," Isaac sighs.

"It's getting dangerous," she prompts, watching his face, the way it goes dark, watching as his mind turns inward.

"I don't think we should stay here, but I don't know where we can go," he admits.

"That seems to be the question," she agrees.

"Do you think you'll find a cure?"

"For the virus? No, I think we're past that point."

"Then what are we looking for?"

She sighs, pressing her lips together. "A clue," she says finally. "Something we can use to our advantage, I guess. Something we can use to…to save ourselves."

"There are people still out there," Isaac says, hopefully. "People like us. We saw that at the lab."

"I know."

"But you're worried about that, too," he says, frowning, picking at something on his palm.

She softens, pinches the bridge of her nose, where a headache is brewing behind her eyes. "We can't trust anyone, Isaac. It's safer this way. You understand?"

"I don't," he says. "I don't understand."

She waits a beat, lips pressed together in a line, softly. "I know, but you have to trust us. Can you do that, at least?"

He nods slowly, disappointment creasing his brow as his hands continue to fidget in his lap.

"Thank you," she sighs, hesitating. "Is there something you wanted to ask me?"

For a moment she thinks she sees a flicker of pain in his eyes, but before she can say something, he hops off the bed.

"Nope, I'm OK."

Even after she returns to her work, that flicker plants the seed of doubt that takes root in the back of her mind, bringing her back to the lab, to the inky darkness of his eyes in his sleep— _shadows_ , she scolds herself, swallowing hard. _Nothing more than shadows._


	6. Chapter 6

JUNE 5, 2015

SOMEWHERE IN SOUTHERN COLORADO

Charlie spent the first night huddled to the far side of the man's truck, waiting for the inevitable. From the time they left her home, her sick ( _dead_ ) parents, she'd realized there was only one reason a strange man would take a young girl. There had to be a catch, some kind of payment or exchange for her safety, and so she waited, not sleeping, not eating the bag of chips he offered as food, not speaking.

 _What was the alternative?_ she wondered with a sinking feeling. She had nowhere to go.

At some point she'd drifted off, her cheek pressed into the rough pebbled surface of the door handle, awakening with a soft gasp when the truck stopped with a jolt and the driver's side door creaked open. Mosely got out of the truck and walked around it, and she gripped the handle until her fingers grew pale, almost transparent with fear.

But he stopped at the back of the truck, and it took a few more moments of waiting for her breath to slow before realizing he wasn't coming for her at all. He was unscrewing the gas cap, pulling a length of hose from the back of the truck, siphoning gas from a nearby vehicle.

When he got back in, he smiled kindly. "Sleep well?"

She hadn't answered, and so he started the truck and drove on.

They'd crossed the border into Colorado, the weathered sign proclaiming their entrance, when she finally asked, "Where are we going?"

"We have another stop to make; then we'll go home."

"Home?"

"A home, of sorts. A place where you'll be safe," he'd said.

"I…I don't understand. Why me?"

"Because you're still here, Charlotte."

And that was the end of the conversation.

They were joined by three more at the next stop; a boy and two girls, picked up at a large brick building, a school. The new recruits, as Charlie began to think of them, were much younger, one still in diapers, all of them mute with shock. They climbed into the bed of the truck without protest, empty eyes looking up to the strange man with wonder at their savior.

 _Do I look like that, too?_ Charlie wondered as she searched for signs of comprehension in their dull, dirty faces. Mosely didn't introduce them, simply asked the older two to get in back, to be careful not to stand up while the truck was moving. He spoke to them kindly, offering water and food. The youngest sat up front next to Charlie, curling himself into a ball, and went to sleep with one dirt-caked thumb held tight between his lips.

She began to feel vaguely like merchandise, and wondered if there would be more stops, and what waited at the end.

She didn't need to wait long; true to his word, Mosely makes no further pick-ups on the way to their destination. Soon they are driving across an expanse of desert so familiar, so similar to her own back yard, that her fear is momentarily replaced by homesickness.

 _Homesick for an empty house? No family? Is that what you miss, Charlie? The chance to starve and die and rot away like your mom and dad?_

The thoughts plague her. Part of her knows that men do not descend like angels to rescue little kids out of the goodness of their hearts, that what lays in store for them is potentially worse than the threat of starvation, but where would she go even if she could find the energy to run?

The two-year-old wakes up, crying for his mother, and Charlie pulls him into her lap. He stinks; his diaper probably hasn't been changed in days, his hair is matted to his forehead with sweat and dirt, and his thumb remains solidly in his mouth even as he cries.

When Mosely pulls over, she asks him to grab something so she can at least change the child, and the man does so without question.

"We're almost there," he assures her upon his return, bearing a handful of clean rags and a box of wet wipes. She uses the latter to wipe off the boy's face and hands, a pitiful sponge bath, but the kid doesn't cry, just sucks hard at his thumb and looks at her with doleful green eyes.

The town is tiny, not a stoplight to its name, not even a Wal-Mart, which you could find just about anywhere. She looks out the window, seeing miles and miles of rocky desert, a no-man's-land of nothing that Mosely referred to as "home." She shudders, wondering what kind of home it could be.

When they reach the fence, the outer perimeter she would later learn, her fingers tighten in her lap. He stops the truck to unlock and open the fence.

A sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach tells her that once they cross that boundary, her choice is made. She could make a run for it. He wouldn't want to leave the other kids. She reaches for the door handle.

At that moment, the two-year-old stirs from another restless sleep and reaches for her with a soft, pitiful cry.

Her palm is sweaty; beads of perspiration collect on her forehead as she concentrates, willing her legs to shift, to work, willing her arms to be strong, to shove open the truck door on its creaky hinges.

The little boy tucks himself deeper against her, pressing his sweaty, stained face into the side of her shirt, his thumb wrinkled and red around the edges where he's sucked it raw.

 _Go, go…go!_

But it's too late. Mosely climbs back into the truck, navigating his way through the open fence, and locks it behind them.

"We're here," he says evenly, bumping along the road, but as far as she can see, "here" is just another word for nothing. She swallows desert dust and fear as she looks forward, squinting, her stomach aching.

The structure materializes slowly, first a wavy black block in her vision, growing slowly larger with each passing mile. It shimmers in the distance, coming to loom over them like a dark cloud.

It looks like a military compound; like something she'd seen in the old war movies her father liked. It's gray and lifeless, but the man looks up at the building like this was his grandmother's front porch.

"Here we are, kids," he grins.

From off to one side, a woman emerges, frowning at the sound of the approaching engine, then smiling at the sight of the truck. Another woman, and a man, and more…now people pour out of the place by the dozen.

Something in Charlie's chest begins to unwind. She hadn't dared believe there was this much life left, and the sight of so many people—alive, healthy, maybe even happy—makes her throat constrict.

The group crowds around them then, Charlie picking up on snippets of excited conversation. Mosely has been shepherding the survivors, as he calls them, to this place for the last two weeks; they are one of the last groups to come in.

There's a flurry of welcoming faces, and no one seems to mind that she remains mute, stunned by the sudden activity after so much silence. Someone takes the two-year-old boy from her arms, a young woman who coaxes and coos at the baby in a motherly way. Charlie watches him go with a mixture of confusion and relief, realizing she hadn't even thought to ask Mosely for the kid's name.

They're brought inside, where the cool air feels like water against her desert-parched skin. Mosely himself breaks away from the group to lead her to her room; an oversized closet with painted cement brick walls. It's dry and clean, with a bed, and simple furniture, and a narrow window at the top that barely lets in enough light to read by, even in the daytime. There are clothes; scavenged, smelling of fresh dryer sheets, no holes.

"You're free to do what you like here," Mosely says, setting down a pile of sheets and a blanket on the unmade bed. His voice is soft as he continues, "You're your own person, Charlotte. You can think of me as a guardian, if you like. I only ask that you respect our rules, and do your part to help us rebuild."

She doesn't know how to respond to that; not hours ago, she'd thought this would be her prison, perhaps the end of her life. Now she isn't so sure.

"I understand you may need some space to process everything; please, take your time. When you're ready, Mary will be waiting outside. She'll take good care of you."

"Thank you," she says finally, looking down at her hands. Mosely leaves, and she sits on the bed in her tiny, dark room, wondering where to begin.

She awakes disoriented in the dark, gasping from a nightmare in which she'd seen the creatures that lurked within her parents' bodies erupt from their makeshift wombs—they'd been men with no faces, lit by fire.

There's a knock at the door, but she doesn't answer; just clutches the rough woolen blanket to her chest, trying to settle her heart.

When she does make her way outside, blinking into the bright hallway, there's a woman sitting on a chair across from her room, reading.

"Oh! I didn't think you were awake," she says, smiling, putting down her magazine—an issue of _US Weekly_ that must be at least two years old.

Charlie fights the urge to shut the door and lock it behind her. "Um."

"You must be exhausted," the woman continues. "The clothes Mosely brought—they fit?"

"Uh, I think so." She hasn't tried them on; she's still wearing her dirty t-shirt and jeans.

"Why don't you get dressed? Breakfast is still on for at least the next hour, and—oh, how silly of me," she demurs. "I forgot to introduce myself! I'm Mary."

Charlie hesitates, unsure what to do with this information.

"What do you think?" the woman prompts. "You look starved. Can you eat?"

She swallows hard, nods, even as the thought of food turns her stomach.

Charlie retreats to her room and tries on the clothes, surprised to find they fit. The shirt feels starchy and stiff against her skin. Her foot aches where she cut it on the glass, and a smear of dried blood along her ankle reminds her that she hasn't showered. She'll have to ask where they keep the soap and towels. Her hair feels thick, unwashed and uncombed, and she runs her fingers through it to break up the largest snarls. She wants to brush her teeth, but the woman outside is eager, and Charlie seems to have lost her voice.

Mary shows her to the cafeteria. Once again, Charlie is stunned at the sheer number of people who appear to be continuing on as if nothing had happened. There are a few familiar faces from yesterday, although in the confusion, she never learned their names.

One of them smiles and waves in greeting. She recognizes the young boy sitting in her lap—the two-year-old Mosely picked up, the one with the sore thumb and the dirty diaper. Today he looks clean and happy as he eats, waving his spoon in the air, milk dribbling down his chin. She wonders if he remembered his real parents, if he dreamed about them the way she dreamed about hers. He must be too young to remember.

Mary interrupts her thoughts, gently nudging her forward. "I hope you like oatmeal," she says, handing Charlie a tray.

She looks down at the rectangle of red plastic as if she can't quite believe it's there; a cafeteria tray. It looks like the ones she used at school. She remembers her first day in ninth grade, that moment of liquid terror upon turning toward the noisy rows of tables, not a single one of them empty, the way it made her throat tighten.

Suddenly the room is too loud, too bright, too full; Mary is still talking at her ear.

"Charlene? Charlene, are you OK sweetie?"

"Um, yeah. No. I…I don't know," Charlie says, trailing off. The tray clatters to the floor before she realizes she's dropped it, echoing in the metal beams, and the din quiets for a moment as the other residents turn to watch. Her throat goes dry, tight, the asthma burning up her lungs without warning.

Mary is at her elbow, guiding her away, out the double doors, down the gray brick hall, whispering soothing words that Charlie doesn't hear. Her hands won't stop shaking. She takes her first ragged breath, finds her lungs won't take in air, but Mary is there with an inhaler. Charlie takes a drag on it, holding in the medicine as long as she can, letting it out with a labored cough.

"I know this must be a difficult adjustment for you, Charlene," Mary whispers when the worst of the attack is over. "But I think you'll find there are a lot of people who want to help you."

"Help me what?" she asks, her voice still thready and weak.

The woman smiles, placing a hand on Charlie's shoulder, the first warm touch she's felt in weeks.

"We'll help you survive—like us."


	7. Chapter 7

JUNE 17, 2015

WOODS HOLE, MASSACHUSETTS

The same nervous watchfulness that Scully left behind on the mainland comes back to her as their boat approaches the dock in Woods Hole. She can tell Mulder and Isaac feel it, too; though they don't speak, the looks on their faces are drawn.

 _Like we're ready for a fight_ , she thinks grimly.

Mulder docks the boat while she takes inventory of her supplies. They'll go back to the house to collect more samples, then to the lab so she can run another PCR.

 _If we hurry, we can make it back to the island before dusk._

Something tells her they don't want to risk overnighting at the lab again; that whatever is keeping tabs on them—because she's certain something is, there's no denying it now—will soon make its presence known.

"We'll get in, I'll grab the samples, then we'll go," she says, speaking over her shoulder. The house looms ahead, as if beckoning them.

 _Just a few minutes_ , she thinks, chewing lightly on her bottom lip. _In and out. Then we'll get to the bottom of this._

The stairs creak under their combined weight, and she forces herself to take low, deep breaths through her mouth to curb the smell. It's weaker now; the house has been open for a while.

The bedroom is as she left it, but something is off.

 _Oh, oh no…_

The body is gone. The bed is empty, save for a crusted bloody stain on the sheets.

Scully turns back to find Isaac, his expression drawn and pale. "They came back for it."

"Let's go," she whispers roughly, unable to keep her voice from shaking.

They make a hasty retreat, Scully looking over her shoulder with every footstep until the house is behind them. If she was nervous before, now every nerve in her body is on high alert.

 _They know. They_ know.

"Why would they take it?" Mulder murmurs, struggling to keep up with her.

"It's a message," she says tightly, forcing herself to slow her pace, taking a deep breath. "They've been watching us. They're waiting for us to make a mistake, and now they're…they're interfering because we're close."

Isaac's voice is ragged. "They're flushing us out."

"It'll be alright," Mulder says, but his expression is tight as they walk back to the boat landing.

The trees sway lightly, their shushing branches whispering a warning as the wind picks up. It blows the damp hair off the back of Scully's neck, and she shivers. Distracted, she doesn't notice the boat landing until Mulder stops short in front of her.

"Ohhhhh shit."

"Mulder?"

"Shit," he hisses, swallowing hard, running long fingers through his shaggy brown hair. "They got to the boat."

"They _what_?" she says, jaw tightening in fear. Sure enough, the boat has been dragged ashore, and they get closer she can see the bottom has been ripped out. There's a jagged hole in the underside where something has burst through, leaving long, angry claw marks along the sides.

"That's fiberglass," Mulder says weakly. "Fiberglass, and they tore it apart like paper."

"The car," Scully says, backing away from the dock in the direction of the road. "We have to get to the car."

"The laptop," Mulder says suddenly, "I left the laptop with the rest of the gear in the goddamned boat!"

He's walking to the shore, intent on finding the black leather bag, and Scully wheels on him in disbelief. "Mulder, we can't stay here!"

"Go! I'll be right behind you."

"Mulder, damnit—"

"Just _go_!"

"Isaac, c'mon!"

Isaac looks toward the car, toward Scully, retreating down the road toward the vehicle's hiding spot, but he's torn. "I need to stay with him! You have the gun!"

 _For all the good that will do_ , she thinks, the shattered boat heavy on her mind.

She groans in frustration, but begins running up the road, toward the edge of the woods where they'd hid the Prius, relieved when she sees the glint of blue emerge from within the forest.

 _It's still here! Oh thank God._

She begins pulling at branches covering the vehicle, scrambling to get into the car, until she remembers Mulder has the keys.

 _Shit!_

The back of her neck tingles violently and she turns around to call for her partner and Isaac, but the words die on her lips.

Standing between her and the road is one of Them.

"Ohhhhh," the surprised moan escapes her lips. Unlike the shadows, with their ethereal, wavering forms, this creature is solid, sharp angles and harsh lines a painful silhouette against the daylight.

 _Just a baby,_ she thinks wildly, _just a baby but oh god the claws and it's huge_

She thinks again of the boat, splintered like a toy, of the body in the bed with his guts ripped from his body, leeched of everything that had once been human. She swallows and tastes bile.

 _They separated us. They knew, they knew Isaac was the only thing keeping us from Them._

The gun is in her hands now, raised and ready, the instincts she'd buried for years rushing to the surface. She doesn't hear the gunshot, but there must be one, because she smells gunpowder, her arm kicks back once, twice, three times.

 _Dead center, but it's not dead. I'm dead._

The thing leans down, considering her. She can feel it breathing, feels its expelled air moving across her face, ripe sewage and soured milk. Its claws extend like a cat's, beckoning, and she is the prey, helpless as a mouse. Toying with her.

She fires again, an involuntary reaction, knowing it's no use.

 _No no no no GODAMNIT NO_

The thing screams, a blinding, terrifying caw that drives her to the ground with a groan, curling in on herself and wrapping her hands over her ears to still the ringing. She feels the weight of it on her, pulling at her, and there's more screaming, a searing pain in her shoulder, her ribs.

The light floods her vision with white heat, more screams, then silence so abrupt she fears it must be over.

 _I'm breathing_ , she thinks, coming to.

And she is, the jagged motion of her chest rising and falling, her spine pressed to the cold, damp earth. She sits up, finds Isaac standing in the distance with his hand outstretched, face white and hard as a stone.

The seconds stretch out, time bending and twisting like taffy, until they become minutes. Mulder reaches over and very slowly, very carefully, helps Isaac lower his hand from where it remains frozen in front of him.

"Scully!"

"I'm…I'm OK," she says, intending to sound strong, but her words are a whisper.

"Think we just met the new locals," Mulder says shakily, laying a tentative hand on Isaac's shoulder. "You OK, kid?"

"Yeah. I think so," he says, but his voice is rough.

"You did good," Mulder says in passing, already moving to where Scully is struggling to get to her feet.

"I'm OK," she repeats, but finds her legs won't hold her. Her balance feels off, her body sways until she feels Mulder's arm around her waist, pulling her up.

"Did it…are you hurt?" he asks, and she can feel the tremor of nervous energy along his forearms. "Christ, you're bleeding."

"It's just a flesh wound," she says, blinking in an attempt to bring the world back into focus.

"Was that a Monty Python joke I just heard?" Mulder mutters drily, wincing as he examines the gash on her right shoulder. "Twenty years and my terrible taste is finally rubbing off on you, Scully. Stay with me."

"Not going anywhere, it's not deep," she continues. "Isaac…he—"

"That thing got between you. I saw it from back there, I thought…"

Mulder doesn't continue, but he doesn't have to.

"I fired at it…point blank," she says, words that feel like they're coming from another person.

"C'mon, Scully, let's go," Mulder says. They're at the car now, he's opening the door, helping her into the back seat.

"Mulder, what are you—"

"We gotta get out of here."

Isaac slides into the seat next to hers.

"Where are we going?" Scully asks, hands gripping the seat beneath her, as if the car were already moving, as if one wrong move could send her flying off the earth.

"Anywhere but here," Mulder mutters through his teeth.

"They know…They know what we're trying to do," Isaac says hollowly. "But They don't know everything. Yet."

"What does that mean?" Mulder asks, starting the engine, not bothering to clear the last of the branches from the back of the car before he pulls out of the makeshift parking spot, tires squealing in protest as he pulls onto the main road. The boughs scrape like claws against the bumper as the last of them fall to the pavement behind them.

"They didn't know I could do that," Isaac says, a trace of pride masked by hollow shock. "They're angry, but…but now They're afraid, too."

Mulder's eyes meet Scully's in the mirror, wide and intense. "We may have some time, then."

"Time…to do what?" she asks, woozy from shock, the pain searing across her shoulder.

"To figure out how we get rid of Them."

Scully sleeps in the back while they drive, an old t-shirt pressed to her wounded shoulder. It stopped oozing shortly after they crossed the border into Connecticut, and Mulder is worried she's lost too much blood. He checks on her in the mirror every few minutes, each time his pulse jumps at the reminder of what he'd seen, watching as the creature had descended on his partner.

 _And where were you? Chasing a useless piece of waterlogged computer equipment. Thank God Isaac was there_ , he thinks, over and over, until the boy speaks up from the back seat, "If there is a god, I don't think he's listening."

"Touché," Mulder says, clearing his throat.

Isaac crawls to the front, curling up with his forehead pressed to the window. The car's wheels are a comforting hum on the pavement, although their destination remains unknown.

"They're not like the other ones," he says quietly, startling Mulder out of the haze of yellow lines and passing trees.

"Mmm?"

"The other ones are…evolved. They're smarter. The ones they've left here are just…here to do the dirty work. Slaves."

Isaac leans forward, wincing, and presses a finger to his temple.

"Hey…you OK?" The car swerves a little as Mulder tries to divide his attention.

"Yeah," the boy says, drawing out the word. "Yeah, it's just…a lot."

"Does it hurt?"

"Not really. But sometimes…it's like there's no room for my own thoughts," he sighs, closing his eyes.

Mulder watches him out of the corner of his eye, but it appears Isaac has nothing else to say. Soon he's snoring lightly, leaving Mulder alone with his own too-loud thoughts.

 _You're in deep shit, Fox_ , his father's voice chimes in helpfully.

He thinks again about the brief network connection at the college, messages sent from around the globe, pitifully few survivors, and what Scully had said about the Gunmen.

 _No time for that. Figure out where you're going to hide, now that the things know where you are._

But is it possible to hide?

By the time it's dark, they've pulled into a park on the outskirts of a rural township somewhere in northwestern Pennsylvania. Isaac rouses, squinting into the darkness. "Mulder?"

"Sleep," Mulder whispers, watching as the boy tries to fold his long legs into the seat, struggling to get comfortable. Scully is stretched across the narrow back seat as much as her petite body will allow, but even she looks cramped.

 _We're going to need a bigger car for this kind of family road trip._

It's difficult to see in the dark, but the brown wood sign to their left reads "Penn Point Lookout." The landmark doesn't appear anywhere in the tattered atlas Scully keeps in the back seat pocket, which Mulder consults, then tosses to the floor in disgust.

 _A tour of every Nowheresville in the continental U.S._ , Mulder thinks, groaning softly as he exits the car, trying to reshape his tired muscles into some semblance of a working human body. _What I wouldn't give for a working GPS._

The park turns out to be a campground, abandoned as far as he can tell.

Mulder is sitting on the ground, propped up against the car with the pistol balanced on one knee, when Scully wakes. He brushes a lazy mosquito from his face, grimacing.

"Where are we?"

"Pennsylvania," he says, voice rusty from lack of sleep. "Scoot over."

She does, and he does his best to fold his long, lean body into the back of the car, tucking his head against her side.

"How long have I been out?" she murmurs, and her breath stirs the hair across his forehead.

"Mmm…few hours," he rumbles, voice muffled. "How's your shoulder?"

She winces and pulls away the t-shirt to reveal the cut, blood matted along the edges. "Needs cleaning," she says. "I don't have a fever. No infection yet. Our antibiotics are still at the house."

"Laptop's gone, too," he yawns. "Swam with the fishes."

"No more Minesweeper for you," she whispers.

Mulder nuzzles his nose against her cheek. "Y'know, Scully, as much as I like a good cuddle…this car is too damned small."

The town itself is as minuscule as the Prius—the "Welcome to Penn Point" sign proudly proclaims a population of just over 300.

"They're off by a few hundred," Scully mutters darkly as they cross the town line, greeted by a single road, one stoplight, and no one to be seen for miles.

"Creepy," Isaac says under his breath.

"Hey, Scully, didn't we stay there once?" Mulder is gesturing out the window to an abandoned motel; the sign, missing several letters, reads _L zy Star M TEL._ "We had a case out here in the mountains somewhere."

Scully squints, "You'd know better than me."

"I think we did. I think it had bedbugs," he says.

"The ones that didn't have bedbugs were a rarity," she sighs.

There's a grocer, and a Wal-Mart that's seen better days, but it has a pharmacy. Scully ducks into the back, in search of erythromycin and Bacitracin, while Isaac and Mulder go searching for their next meal. The shelves have been picked over, and anything fresh has long since expired.

"Nice thing about these," Mulder says, picking up a pack of sunflower seeds from the checkout aisle, shaking them with fondness, "They last."

"Can't say that for much," Isaac agrees, but he's too tired to do much more, still numbed from yesterday's brutal encounter. The dark shape had materialized out of nowhere, blocking his view of Scully, giving him no time to think or act.

 _She was dead_ , he thinks. _As good as dead, and…_

And he doesn't know what he did to stop it, save for existing. Doesn't know how his hands came to be in front of him, how he'd directed it, how Scully had survived the blast. Power without understanding is a terrible, dangerous thing.

He wonders how long it will take before the bomb he carries within will blow up.

He thinks of Alice, of their first and last kiss, and the terrifying way she'd died.

 _Has her monster gestated yet?_

He shudders, stumbling over a shattered lamp; Mulder catches him by the shoulder, guiding him around the wreckage with a concerned look. Isaac's head aches, he's overtired, careless, getting clumsy.

Maybe her monster is out there, looking for him. Alice's child.

His child, too, in a way.

"How're you holding up?" Mulder asks, interrupting his thoughts.

Isaac shrugs. "I dunno," he whispers, turning away. "Can't sleep." This is the truth, although it's not unusual, not anymore. If he sleeps, he might dream, and his dreams are a labyrinth of losses and horrors.

"Nightmares?"

"No. I don't have to close my eyes for those," he says with a wry grimace. "It's the 'closing my eyes' part I'm having trouble with, I guess."

"Yeah…me, too," Mulder admits. "I think sleep deprivation comes with the territory now."

"It always has."

"You get that from me," Mulder snorts softly. "Let's go check on the doc."

Scully is redressing the wound on her shoulder when they find her amidst half-open boxes of gauze and a tube of Neosporin in the pharmaceuticals aisle.

"I got extras, just in case," she says, wincing as she pulls the sleeve of her shirt down over the freshly bandaged gouge. "It wasn't bad this time. I also found a map," she says, pulling out a large book. "I think we can trace a route around most of the major cities."

"Where are we going?" asks Isaac.

"Well, that's the big question, isn't it?" Scully sighs. "But if we want to study this thing, we should head for the closest major CDC research facility. That's northeast of Atlanta. But there's no way we're getting through the city without backup."

"No, too risky," Mulder says quietly. "Isn't there a satellite campus somewhere? The research would be accessible to all connected centers across the country; we just have to find a waypoint."

Scully looks at him carefully. "That's possible. I think there's a smaller lab in Kentucky…yeah…here," she says, flipping pages. "South of Frankfort. We can probably drive it in a day if we don't run into any roadblocks, and camp out on the back roads. We'll stay here tonight and leave in the morning."

"I thought we agreed—no more camping," Mulder says drily. The thought of sleeping on a tent floor, with nothing but a layer of Polytex between them and the monsters holds little appeal.

 _Not like the car's any better. One of those things could open a Hummer like soup can._

"Unless you want to stay at the 'Ell-zee Star Em-tel,'" she sighs, sounding out the motel with the busted sign. "I think it's best if we stay mobile, sleep in the car. If we drive it in shifts, we'll make better time."

"I'm going to look in the back," Isaac says. "We need sleeping bags."

"Here, take the flashlight—no windows back there."

Mulder is right; away from the light of the front entrance, it's pitch black. Isaac wanders toward the camping section, flashlight beam bouncing along the aisles. His head aches, has grown from a dull roar to a steady throb as they came into town, and now he has to stop in the middle of the home goods section to grit his teeth at an unexpected wave of pain.

 _Fuck ow ow ow._

He crouches, eyes watering, as the throb grows more insistent, demanding his attention, a calling he can't understand. It's almost like…

Something moves at the back of the store, a flicker of shadow on the concrete wall. He points the flashlight, but whatever it is has scooted out of sight.

The beam trembles as he considers whether to go back and warn Mulder and the Doc, then decides against it.

 _Probably just a stray._

He reaches the end of the aisle, swinging the flashlight left and right, his breathing faster, his heart ticking like a bomb. There's a sound to his left, a soft scratching, and he stifles a gasp in his sleeve.

He puts one hand to his temple, absently massaging the ache, heading toward the sound, but it stops at his approach. The light wobbles left to right and back again, but there's nothing to see; only half-empty shelves, a display of throw pillows, a box of cereal dumped on the floor and crushed into powder.

The seconds tick by and the pounding in his head increases, nearly pinning him to the floor.

He's about to turn around when the creature lets out a strangled cry, and a black mass launches at him from the darkness.

He thinks of Alice, her monster come to collect her due.

Isaac ducks, feels something sharp, then fleshy, graze his temple, and he loses the flashlight, a hard _clack_ as it skitters underneath one of the shelves and goes out. His hands are already hot, and he puts them out, letting off a surge of light that drowns the dark in white. Someone—some _thing_ —screams. A dull clanging noise echoes off the rafters of the department store, metal beams carrying the sound across the gray-black ceiling.

A panicked cry from somewhere to his right. "Isaac? Isaac!"

He scrabbles backward on the tile, breathing hard, waiting for another hit. He can't see, everything is gray-blue shapes with fuzzy edges, his vision whited out by his own hands.

Nothing comes. Just the tick of the thing's angry thoughts retreating and outward silence, footsteps as his parents rush to the scene. Sweat drips off his brow, the stale air has grown hot and rank with fear.

Scully is the first to find him. "Isaac? Isaac, what happened?" She's kneeling before him, her porcelain face looms in front of him, her hands cupping his cheeks.

"No…I think I hurt it," he whispers.

Mulder comes up behind them. "Did you—"

"There was something back here," he says, taking great gulps of air. "Think I surprised it."

"You're bleeding," Scully whispers, the flashlight temporarily blinding him as it scans his face.

"What did you see, Isaac?" Mulder murmurs, kneeling, hand warm on his shoulder.

"One of them," he says quietly. "It was here…scavenging, I think. It…my head hurt, it was so…so…" he says, struggling to describe the feeling. "It must have been here before, I just…I couldn't tell, there were too many…"

"Is it still here?" Mulder asks, squinting into the dark.

Isaac swallows, noting the pain is his head is almost gone. He stands, leaning against Scully, grateful for something solid to hold onto. "No, I don't think so."

"OK," Mulder breathes. "Let's get what we need, then get the hell out of here."

They find a truck in the parking lot; old, but big enough to carry their supplies and act as a mobile home. An actual camper might have worked better, but there is only one to be found, and Isaac looked at it with wide, vacant eyes and terse shake of his head; a silent but emphatic _no._

 _That's probably where the thing in the store came from_ , Scully thinks, wondering if the creatures are drawn to their birthplaces.

They end up at the Lazy Star Motel after all, parking the truck behind the worn building for better cover, staying with it rather than venturing inside.

"It's warm enough to sleep out here," Scully says as she rolls out a cheap foam pad in the covered truck and spreads sleeping bags on top, a makeshift bed, nesting with what little they have while Mulder attempts to start a fire. "We can move quick if anything happens. It'll be OK," she says, trying to reassure Isaac, who's hanging back at the tailgate, watching the trees. His shoulders twitch at every movement, every sound, and he jumps when she lays a hand on his shoulder.

"You can sleep in the cab."

"Yeah." His voice shakes, and she wants to hug him, but knows he wouldn't let her, one of the many ways they are alike. Neither is easily soothed with touch.

"Do you want something to eat?"

"No…no, I think I'm gonna go to bed," he says, looking at his shoes.

"Yes!" Mulder shouts from a few feet away, as the fire starts to grow in the pit. The smell of smoke and burning wood is comforting, familiar.

"Stay," she says at the last minute, as Isaac is turning to climb into the truck. "I…we still need to clean that cut," she gestures to the gash on his forehead, now dried and sticky.

He shrugs, eyes dark, but he ambles back to her.

"Sit," she says, patting the tailgate, taking a seat next to him. She rummages in her pack for the Bacitracin, Neosporin, and a gauze pad. "Let me take a look."

He winces when she dabs at the wound. There are tears in his eyes, but he's stoic.

"It's not deep," she murmurs, wiping away dirt and blood from the surface, taking care around the edges, remembering a time when she'd done the same for Mulder. "Just a scratch. Head wounds bleed more, though. Let's get a Band-Aid on it."

"Anyone up for s'mores?" Mulder calls just as she's finished affixing the bandage to Isaac's forehead. Her partner is cheekily smiling over the now-roaring campfire, holding up a bag of fluffy white marshmallows from the Wal-Mart. This gets a small smile, even from Isaac, and he shrugs in agreement.

They eat dessert first, graham crackers covered in melted candy, and none of them talk about what happened at the store.

"Scully, wake up. Wake up!"

Someone is shaking her shoulder; Mulder's hand is warm on her chilled skin.

"Mulder?" she mutters, squinting up at the truck's cap. "Is it my turn?"

"No, it's Isaac."

There's a surge of adrenaline at the panic in his voice. "What? What happened?"

She's crawling out of the bed of the truck and following Mulder to the passenger's side door.

"I think he's having a seizure."

She steps in front of Mulder to get to their son, whose body has gone rigid, his eyes open but unfocused, rolling in their sockets, and—

 _Black_ , she thinks, throat tightening with fear, thinking of the other night in the lab.

"Hold him," she says, medical training kicking in. "Not too tight, make sure he can't hurt himself."

But before Mulder can grasp the boy's shoulder, he stills, blinks, turns his head toward his parents.

"Isaac…Isaac, can you hear us?" Scully says, reaching for him, cupping his cheek in her hand, feeling the cold sting of sweat against her palm.

The boy blinks again, confused, but whispers, "Yeah. M'fine."

"Don't move, Isaac, you need to—"

But he's already sitting up, turning around, and his face pales at the sight of them standing over him with fear in their eyes. "What is it? Are They here?"

"No, no, sweetie," she whispers, exhaling in a rush. "But you were…we thought you were sick. Are you hurt?"

Isaac frowns. "I'm fine. It was just a bad dream."

"You having those a lot?" Mulder asks.

Isaac breaks Scully's gaze to look at his lap, suddenly contrite. "Umm…sometimes," he says.

"How often?" Scully demands.

"I dunno…most nights, I guess."

"Since when?" she says.

His brow furrows. "I don't remember. It's just the same stupid dream."

Scully presses her lips together hard, drawing back, every muscle in her neck straining as her stomach turns at this revelation. Mulder's hand finds its way to her lower back.

"S'OK, Scully. He's OK," he whispers, and she measures her breaths in seconds until the shaking in her hands subsides.

"You have to tell us these things," she says, barely controlling her words. "You can't—"

The boy sits up suddenly, a flurry of movement. Mulder and Scully watch as he fishes around under his blanket, then pulls his hand back, startled.

"Isaac? What is it?"

"I…I…" he begins, but can't finish the thought.

She looks over his shoulder to where he's pulled back the blanket, staring at a black mark on the truck's seat. There's the faint, acrid smell of burning plastic.

 _No…not a mark_ , she realizes as her eyes adjust to the gray dawn light. _A hole._

Leaning forward, her hands brush Isaac's fingers as she reaches out to touch the scar left in the truck's upholstery, like a cigarette burn in the shape of a hand, where he'd clutched at the seat during his nightmare.


	8. Chapter 8

JUNE 18, 2015

They leave a smoldering pile of ashes behind the decrepit motel, the only sign of a presence in the otherwise barren town. Mulder watches the broken sign grow smaller in the rearview mirror, a painful reminder that they grow further from home with each mile.

As someone who didn't legally exist for years, he's surprised at the wave of homesickness, how settled he'd felt in their Virginia farmhouse, and then the island, how hard it is to leave everything behind.

 _There is no 'home'_ , he reminds himself.

The drive is quiet, the scenery around them is beautiful even in its desolation. Birds take flight as they drive past, flocks scattering in ebony, feathery quantities larger than Mulder can ever remember seeing before. The same goes for deer; they graze beside the roads with impunity, barely twitching at the sound of their puttering truck as it crests one hill after another.

 _This is good for them_ , he thinks with a measure of guilt. _We were their virus._

They reach the Kentucky border in the early afternoon, and decide to set up camp on a back road rather than venture into the city before dark. The advantage of daylight seems important in a way it hadn't before.

Using the map as a guide, Scully finds a former logging road, overgrown but passable, and they drive a mile in before parking the truck in the shade of a large oak the foresters must have taken pity on. Summer is in full bloom at the height of August, the trees lush and green in the humid air, the forest fragrant, wrapping them in a blanket of earthen scents and sounds.

It doesn't take long to set up, given what little they have. Scully roots around in the truck for their next meal—soup, green beans, a box of crackers—and Mulder prepares their beds, throwing blankets over the seat of the truck, rolling out the foam and sleeping bags in the back.

"Where's Isaac?" he says when he's finished, wiping dust from his hands on his jeans.

"He's down there," Scully gestures to a stream beyond the brush a few yards away, through which Mulder glimpses the boy's dirt-streaked red shirt. "Dinner's almost ready."

Mulder limps down the rough path where Isaac is sitting next to the water.

"Hey, kid, the doc's making dinner. Hope you like Campbell's cream-of-something-or-other."

Isaac stiffens at the voice behind him, and there's a soft snuffle as he wipes his nose on his sleeve of his t-shirt.

"Hey…you OK?"

"Fine," Isaac whispers.

"Ahh. 'Fine'," Mulder says, approaching with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Heard that one before."

Isaac turns his head away, and Mulder sees the steely glint of blue in his eyes. "I said I'm fine."

"Oh, I heard you," Mulder says, taking a seat next to Isaac. "I just thought I'd enjoy the view from over here."

Isaac makes a low sound in his throat, but doesn't move away, doesn't tell him to get lost. Mulder takes this as his cue.

"You probably know," he continues, "that all of this used to belong to the Native Americans. The Shawnee, actually. Before our great-great-greats got hold of it and started planting flags everywhere. They brought sickness and famine, killing hundreds of thousands, decimating the tribes and forcing them to live in exile. I'm beginning to understand how those first nations must have felt."

Isaac sniffs in agreement, but remains quiet, staring at his reflection in the water, as if willing himself to vanish under its glimmering, bubbling surface.

Mulder waits, walking the uncertain but familiar line between pressing him and pushing him away. The boy's voice is watery and low when he finally speaks.

"I can't believe she's gone."

Mulder frowns. "Your mom?"

"Alice."

 _Oh._

"She was your…friend, right? Girlfriend?"

The boy's cheeks flush. "Just a friend," he mumbles, but his words ring with a fierce, protective quality, the same way Mulder's might have years ago, when he would have said, _"She's my partner. We just work together."_

"Isaac, I know you grew up with a certain…approach to spirituality, and I know we haven't exactly talked about what we believe, because that's…well, that's a whole different…but…I guess what I'm saying is, I don't think your friend is gone. Not in spirit, at least."

Isaac snorts, brushing this off with impatience. "I know."

"Oh…" Mulder trails off, puzzled, watching the boy with grave consideration, noting the way his young shoulders tense, almost trembling from the effort of what he's holding back.

"Is it the dreams, Isaac? Did something—"

The boy wheels on him, eyes glittering. "You guys expect me to protect you, but what if I can't? I couldn't help my mom. I couldn't help Alice. I couldn't stop this…this _thing_ from happening to us," he spits, his voice rising, swept away in a flood. Tears flow from his eyes but he doesn't seem to notice as they make salty puddles in the rocky sand beneath them.

"You want me to help, you think I'm some kind of…of key, that I'm supposed to save us, but I don't know how! I could have killed her! I don't always know how to control it and when that happened…and what if I had? What would you have done?"

"Isaac, you didn't—"

"And what if _you_ die? What then?" he says, anger radiating from his stricken face. "What would she think?"

"Hey…hey…" Mulder reaches out before Isaac can protest, pulling him into an embrace as the boy's terrified rambling devolves into sobs. He clutches at him like a drowning child, and Mulder has a vivid memory of the boy's newborn fist holding his shirt, the same thoughts pulling at him, weighing him down.

 _What if I can't protect you, either?_

"Hey now, s'OK," he murmurs, hand behind the boy's head, ruffling his brown hair, placing a kiss on his temple. "You're alright."

There's a rustling from behind them, and Scully appears, concern written on her face. Mulder, still holding Isaac, gives her a look and a nod, silent reassurance.

She nods, retreats. Mulder resumes stroking the boy's hair until he calms, pulling away and folding in on himself once more, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"Sorry," Isaac mumbles.

"Nothing I haven't thought of doing myself. The doc hates it when I get snot all over her nice clothes, though," Mulder says, smiling a little, nudging the boy's shoulder with his own. They sit side by side while Isaac regains control, until his breath no longer hitches, until he can speak without his voice breaking.

"You know, Isaac, if something happens to us…it happens. We're all living on borrowed time," Mulder says, biting his lip as he thinks about what he's about to say. "But you can't give up. We believe in you because you're our son, but the only thing that matters is what _you_ believe. As long as you have hope…that's what you live for. Don't ever stop fighting for it."

They walk back to the truck, where Scully busies herself over a pot of soup, trying not to make her concern obvious. Mulder sidles up to her and puts his hand on her lower back as she's divying up their meal.

"Mm mm good," he murmurs as she ladles soup into a paper bowl.

They eat in tense silence. Scully watches Isaac out of the corner of her eye; he picks at his green beans without enthusiasm.

"We need to keep moving," he blurts out before they've finished dinner, as Scully is sopping up the last of her over-salted soup with a cracker.

"Do you sense something?" she asks, glancing at Mulder, then back at Isaac, wondering if there was more to their waterfront conversation than they'd let on.

"Not like that," he says, shaking his head. "We need to find others."

There's a long, uncertain pause, the air around them growing quiet enough to hear the scraping of plastic against paper. Mulder bristles at her side, glancing uneasily at Scully just as she asks, "Others?"

"There are other people out there," Isaac says. "We saw that, back at the lab, when we had internet. Our best chance for survival is to stick together. I know you're worried. I know you think more people will make us weak," he says, turning to address Mulder directly. "But we have to take a chance. I'll be able to tell when people are being honest, I'll know when there's trouble. You have to trust me."

"Isaac—" Scully begins, her voice too calm, too gentle.

He turns to her, beseeching, "You asked if I trust you, and I do. But do you trust me?"

Her lips part for a second, but she closes her mouth without saying anything.

"I know you do," he continues. "You know I'm right."

"Isaac…"

He's angry now, fuming. "But you don't listen to me. I'm just a kid, right?"

"I didn't say that."

"You don't have to," he sneers, and she winces, feeling her face color at the truth in his words. "Whatever. I'm going to bed."

The truck door slams hard enough to make them flinch.

Sleep never comes easily given the new world in which they find themselves, but tonight it seems an impossibility, so Scully agreed to take first watch.

She sits at the end of the makeshift bed, legs swung over the tailgate, peering uneasily into the surrounding forest, the night sky cloudy and heavy with the scent of rain.

There's a cooler with bottled water, salvaged from the abandoned store, but Scully digs beneath the plastic until she hits glass.

Water isn't the only thing they salvaged.

"Hey," comes a sleepy voice behind her. "You gonna share?"

She smiles, prying off the top, letting the beer foam gently onto the grass at her feet, the smell of wheat and hops reminding her of late summer nights, the porch swing, and a baseball game on the radio. Simple, easy things. Lost things.

"Too hot to sleep," she lies, scooting over as Mulder's weight shifts the truck. They look back, waiting to see if they've woken Isaac, who makes a soft sound from his bed in the cab, but doesn't wake.

Mulder grunts in agreement, accepting the beer.

"Hope you don't mind it warm."

He grimaces as the first swallow goes down; it's cheap, a bitter treat. "I won't mind it so much if we can chase it with another."

She smirks, but the smile doesn't reach her eyes. He can just make it out in the dim evening glow.

"He's right, you know," she whispers.

"About?"

"Finding others."

A soft huff as she passes the amber bottle back, and he takes another sip, this one goes down more easily than the first. She suddenly has a craving for pizza to go with it; one of many simple things they may never get back, but right now, greasy cheese and dough might as well be the holy grail.

"It's too dangerous, Scully."

"It's dangerous no matter where we are," she counters, feeling comforted by their familiar pattern of argument.

"Anyone who survived is immune for a reason. They're either part of the project or they had access to the vaccine by way of the same source. We can't assume they're all like us."

She sighs. "Mulder, I need to be able to study this; we need to know what's happening to Isaac. If the vaccine changed him—"

"He said it was just a dream—you don't believe that?"

She shifts uneasily, taking another sip of the beer. "His DNA shows structural changes, changes that shouldn't even be possible. That worries me, and his behavior…" she stops, sighing. "I'm just saying, there's strength in numbers, and that's a valuable resource we don't have out here."

Mulder picks at the bottle label, thumb scratching at the glass, considering this.

"Mulder, he shouldn't be alone," she presses, watching his face for signs of understanding.

"He has us."

She snorts softly, watching the tree line, the dark, shifting woods around them. "For how long? They're waiting for us. We can't assume his protection is enough…it's not fair, to put that burden on him."

Mulder considers this with a raised eyebrow, before passing her the bottle. "Here."

"What?"

"You obviously need this more than me."

"You're probably right," she agrees, accepting the drink. "The night brings it out in me, I guess. It's so…still. I suppose it's always been this way, that this is the natural state of the world and we've been too insulated by the comforts of modern life to notice, but…when it gets dark…it's easy to believe that whatever greater forces might have been watching have given up on us."

"We all fight our battles alone," he murmurs, squinting up into the sky; the clouds have started to drift, to part, pinpricks of stars visible through wisps of spun cotton.

"We don't have to," she says, reaching over to take his hand. "There was always at least one person who had my back…even in the dark. You taught me that."

He bites the inside of his cheek, lets her squeeze his fingers, and he squeezes back.

"We may not need anyone else, but Isaac does," she whispers. "He deserves to have the chance at a normal life…whatever that means now," her voice drops.

He doesn't respond, but he doesn't draw his hand away, either.

The night falls over them, and eventually they crawl back into the truck bed, her head spinning gently with the effects of the alcohol. _Not used to that now_ , she thinks, remembering how she could match Mulder drink for drink without slurring a word when they were back in Virginia.

His arms move around her and she lets them stay, even as she wishes for privacy. Strange, in this world, to wish to be alone, but then she might be able to cry, to scream, to unleash the anger that coils at the back of her throat.

Instead, she presses her back to Mulder's slumbering form, and she waits.


	9. Chapter 9

JUNE 19, 2015

CDC RESEARCH FACILITY

FRANKFORT, KENTUCKY

"It should be right here," Scully says, turning onto a narrow street lined with cars, double-checking the map. A delivery van hangs open, cardboard boxes spilling out into the street, and she guides the rattling truck around them.

She's been nervous since they crossed the city limits, expecting the creatures to sense their presence, but so far, there's no activity. Her hands are slick on the wheel. Isaac is quiet, his blue eyes revealing nothing.

"There," Isaac says, pointing at a nondescript gray-white building, shimmering in the thick heat of morning.

Not even nine and Scully's t-shirt is damp with sweat; it feels like 85 in the shade, of which there isn't much to be found. The sun beats down on the brick building, relentless, heat reflected in shimmering waves off the wide glass windows.

"Hey look, free sauna," Mulder mutters under his breath.

"Let's make this quick," she sighs, irritable. She'd tossed and turned, crammed into the truck bed with Mulder, who hadn't gotten much sleep, either.

He's right about the facility; the heat is oppressive, and they open the door to a sour-smelling brick oven whose air conditioning hasn't worked for weeks. Mulder and Isaac gag, while Scully merely winces, drawing the collar of her shirt over her mouth and nose. They take her cue and do the same.

"Isaac?"

"Nothing here except dead air. Literally," he coughs, words muffled by his t-shirt.

"Good. If anything comes—"

"I know, I got it, I'll tell you," he sighs.

"We need a computer," Mulder says.

"Not just any computer," Scully reminds him as they proceed down the hall, making a left off the main entrance, passing offices and labs. "They'll be close to the labs; connected to the network. That's the only way to guarantee they'll have access to the database."

"Like this?" asks Isaac, stopping in front of a window overlooking a research lab. At the back, workstations.

"Yeah…exactly like that," Scully says, testing the door, finding it open. Her senses have begun to acclimate to the smell, although sweat tickles as it slips down the back of her neck. It's at least 100 degrees inside the building, and the stale air isn't helping.

Isaac reads her mind, heading straight for the windows, relieved to find they open with ease. It's not much, there's barely a breeze coming through, but it's better than nothing.

Mulder is already at one of the computers, pulling something out of a black bag.

"How are you going to—"

He holds up the bag. "Battery backup. Should be able to run this thing for thirty minutes if we're lucky."

"But we don't have Internet access," she reminds him.

"No," he says, fumbling underneath the table for the computer's cord, plugging it into the black box. "But they would have kept cached system files. I just hope they're not encrypted."

"If nothing else, we can swipe the hard drive and bring it with us," Isaac says, coming up behind them.

"Good thinking," Mulder says as the screen flickers to life.

As they work, Scully walks around the lab, scavenging for anything that might be useful. Alcohol wipes and syringes go into her backpack. "I'm going to check the kitchen," she says, but the guys are too deep into the computer's inner workings to hear her.

There's a kitchenette off the hall, the smell within rank. She pulls her shirt up over her mouth and nose again, deciding to avoid the refrigerator. It's unlikely anything within is edible.

Instead, she paws through the cupboards, finding very little; instant coffee and tea packets. The tea has limited medicinal properties, and instant coffee, while stale, is better than nothing. There are sugar and salt packets, and she empties these into her bag in case they need to replace lost electrolytes due to the heat.

She skims the shelves under the sink but comes up short; no canned goods, few dry goods, little in the way of food. Some expired crackers, probably left over from an office meeting. She pauses, running her fingers over the crinkling wax paper, thinking about how she had once taken such things for granted; her morning cup of coffee, the tray of bagels in the break room at the hospital, coming home to a warm meal.

They'll have to stop for supplies again soon, and she shudders at the thought of pawing through boxes of food in the dark.

When she returns to the lab, Mulder and Isaac are scrolling through something onscreen, but their faces are pinched.

"It's protected," Isaac explains when she looks over his shoulder.

"Dammit," Mulder says, sucking in a sharp breath. "We have about ten minutes left on the battery; no way we're going to get in."

"Let's get the hard drive, then."

Isaac helps to dismantle the computer.

"I hope you know something about these things, kid," Mulder murmurs, and Scully shoots him a sympathetic look. He's thinking of the Gunmen again; they'd be able to crack it in a matter of hours. Without them, the drive could take days—more like weeks, or even months—to access.

Scully sighs. "Let's sweep the rest of the building for supplies."

Isaac takes the lead, testing doors, while his parents hang back.

Mulder rubs at the growing stubble on his chin, a sign of frustration. "I don't know where we go from here, Scully. I'm out of ideas."

"We'll figure something out," she says, but her words are hollow.

A supply closet holds more lab equipment, some of which Scully takes—extra sample collection kits, gloves, and gauze.

"Rats," Isaac says, stopping in front of a door.

"What's wrong?"

"No, look—rats," he says, gesturing to the narrow window. Scully peeks through; inside the lab, narrow cages sit in tidy rows on a bench. Small white and brown bodies lay motionless within, killed by the heat or the infection, it's impossible to tell.

 _We're no different from them_.

"We're not going to find anything else here," she says. "Let's go."

The air is fresher outside, but the afternoon temperature has risen to a thick, oppressive blanket. The delivery van is still there, and as Scully pulls up alongside it, she gets a closer look. Her heart lightens.

 _Some good luck, finally_ , she thinks, shifting into park next to the vending supply company van.

"What are you stopping for?"

"It's time for lunch," she says, climbing out of the truck's cab.

The spilled goods are better than anything they'd find at a grocery store. They throw the abandoned chips, dried fruit, trail mix, and melted candy bars into their packs.

"Now if only this thing had AC," Mulder grins, tossing his overflowing bag into the back of the pickup.

Crammed together in the truck's cab once again, the open windows only serve to blow warm air across their sticky, overheated bodies as Scully pulls out of the surrounding neighborhood. Their moment of lighthearted gathering is replaced by somber watchfulness. Mulder keeps the gun out, resting on his knee, and his index finger doesn't venture far from the trigger.

Isaac is equally quiet as they pass rows of empty houses. There's another stray dog, and Isaac counts three cats, but nothing human or inhuman alike.

Scully relaxes a fraction as they leave the city, the suburbs, entering rolling fields of rural farmland. When the pavement gives way to gravel, she feels her shoulders unwind, her grip on the wheel loosening. Though they're pushing their luck staying in the woods without cover, being surrounded by empty corpses, blocked in by buildings and abandoned cars, is even less appealing.

Tonight they'll stay deep in the woods on the forested back road. The stolen hard drive rests heavy in Mulder's pocket, a useless hunk of metal until they can find a working computer.

 _We need a power source,_ Scully thinks, reminded once again of how much easier it would be if there were others, a community…

She stops the thought in its tracks. They still haven't talked about Isaac's outburst— _"We need to find others"_ — and today has only brought further disappointment. There's no point in drudging up hard feelings.

They set up camp in the truck that night with defeated silence, punctuated by the sounds of opening cellophane wrappers. Scully excuses herself after dinner—crackers and cheese substitute, with trail mix for dessert—to study her notes on the DNA tests she ran back in Massachusetts, leaving Mulder and Isaac to sit by the fire. It's too hot to enjoy, but the smoke keeps the gnats and mosquitos away.

 _An entomology course might have come in handy_ , she thinks, smacking another of the pesky bugs off the side of her neck as she frowns at the papers in her lap. _We could study the damn bugs, find out why they got off lucky…_

She blinks, looking up, watching another bloodthirsty, whining gnat alight on her forearm, watching in a fog as it bites, the sting that coincides with a sudden thought…

 _Study the bugs…stings…_

"The bees," she whispers to herself, wondering why the thought is so perfect, so…exciting. "Bees," she repeats, scrambling out of the back of the truck, where Mulder and Isaac are peering at her over their shoulders. "Bees!"

"Need the bug spray?" Mulder asks, but Scully ignores him, too excited.

"How did the virus spread, Mulder? How were they able to replicate it?"

He shakes his head slowly, confused. "I don't know. You said it was probably airborne, given the rate of infection—"

"No, that's not what I mean. The _first time_ , Mulder, the black oil virus. They used _bees_. Bees in genetically modified crops."

"Yeah," he says, drawing out the word, but it's clear from his expression he doesn't understand. "But we don't know this is the same virus, Scully, it's not—"

"It doesn't matter! The bugs appear to be immune, and so do the animals; we've seen scores of them. What if they acted as carriers?"

"For what?"

She pauses, thinking out loud. "A vaccine? A…a deterrent, maybe? Something that could weaken them, possibly even kill them."

Mulder gives her an encouraging nod over the campfire, the glow lighting his face with an aura of hope. "You think you could do that?"

"I…I don't even know where we would begin, but…"

"You can't do research from the back of a pickup truck," Isaac interrupts, echoing Scully's thoughts aloud.

Scully huffs a sigh, hands on her hips, pacing. They'd need to venture into the city again. Procuring the right tools would be like finding a needle in a haystack.

"I have an idea," Mulder interrupts, but he looks uncertain.

She waits, finally prompts him. "And?"

"There were facilities in New Mexico…but you're not going to find them on a map. Gibson and I did some exploring while I was in hiding, after you were born," he says, nodding at Isaac. "I don't know if these places are still active…that was years ago, we never got very far in," he murmurs. "They were safe, though. The rocks—"

Scully's eyes widen. "Magnetite."

"Yeah, that," he says. "It keeps them away. Kills them."

"That's it, then," she says, heart thrumming hopefully in her chest. "God, I wish I'd thought of it before! Do you think we can get in? Do you think you'll know where to go?"

"It's a long shot, but—"

Her eyes blaze. "But what?"

"When have we ever had anything but a long shot?" he smiles slyly.

Her smile is fainter. "If these facilities are secure, protected, we'd have somewhere to stay…"

"Power?" Isaac says, skeptical.

"They'll have something," Mulder says. "Easier to fly under the radar if you're not sucking off the public supply."

Isaac shrugs in response, though his face seems to lighten at the prospect of a purpose, a direction. "I say we do it."

 _Children thrive on stability, security, and routine_ , Scully thinks, an errant snippet of wisdom from a parenting book, read long before William had been reborn as Isaac, and she once again feels a tug of regret. _What kind of life is this?_

If anything, this strengthens her resolve, and she folds her arms across her chest, eyes blazing. "Then let's do it."


	10. Chapter 10

JUNE 21, 2015

It's dawn when they pull onto the main road, heading southwest. Mulder drives, and Scully and Isaac take turns reading the map spread across their laps like a veined paper quilt, plotting their route. There's little discussion save for the occasional murmur as they trace the winding roads with a yellow marker.

Eventually there's nothing left to do but wait, and watch the desert roll by. They stop past the Arkansas border to switch drivers so Mulder can rest, his jacket bunched up against the window as a makeshift pillow.

Isaac sits between his parents in the scarred seat where his handprint is permanently burned into the upholstery. Scully keeps looking at him when she thinks he doesn't notice, and eventually he crawls into the truck bed, nesting himself amongst their supplies, wishing he could escape the constant worry of her thoughts.

He notices the change as they're crossing northern Texas, a couple hundred miles east of New Mexico. An emptiness, a calmness, the sudden absence of pain so abrupt it's disarming. He opens his eyes, blinking into the blinding, orange-red landscape.

 _Silence._

"Hey guys? I can't…I can't hear anything." He reaches out, seeking Them, seeking anything. The Doc's thoughts are there, but cloudy. Static, like he used to hear when he was younger, before he knew how to focus.

"What do you—"

"The voices," he insists, looking at Mulder with guarded eyes. "They're…quiet."

"You're sure?"

Isaac shakes his head. "I can't tell you what you're thinking," he says. "Something's blocking me."

The strange sensation grows stronger as they close in on their destination. Mulder pulls the truck into a neglected rest area outside Portales, the sign from the highway proclaiming itself the last stop before Roswell. Some clever bystander has pasted a sticker next to the city name, faded and worn around the edges, but still legible. A jaunty green alien with large black almond eyes gives the peace sign from within a tiny spaceship, exclaiming: _I visited Roswell, and it was out of this world!_

Between them lies miles of desert, much of it uninhabited, dotted with nothing but rocks and shrubs. Even the rest stop seems to sag in on itself in surrender, the cracked pavement overgrown with sand and weeds.

Scully puts her hands on her hips, stretches, scanning the horizon. "Are we close?"

Isaac kneels, watches a scorpion skitter away into the shade of the truck. That he can't hear the creatures coming bothers him more than the unnatural stillness that makes his head swim. Without his abilities, he's vulnerable.

They all are.

Mulder takes a long draw on a bottle of water, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "Not yet. About two-hundred miles that way is the reservation where Gibson and I stayed. We'll start from there, make circles outward. It was northwest of the reservation, but I don't know how far we walked."

"You OK?" Scully asks Isaac, passing him a bottle of water, watching him the way she used to when they were first reunited; as if she can't decide whether to laugh or cry.

"I'm fine," he says.

"We'll be there soon," she says, flashing a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

"Think you've got another three hours in you?" Mulder asks, turning to Scully.

"No point in stopping until it gets dark. It's too hot to sleep."

"Alright. Let's skip the city, though. I've seen enough UFOs for one lifetime."

They're fifty miles outside the reservation when Scully spots a disturbance ahead. At first she thinks it must be the wind, picking up dust off the road and reflecting the setting sun, but it doesn't let up, doesn't grow faint. Suddenly there's a glimmer of flashing lights, too distinct to be a reflection. She draws in a sharp breath, killing the truck's headlights and pulling off onto the soft shoulder.

Isaac and Mulder are dozing against each other as twilight turns the sky a deep reddish purple. She reaches across the boy to rouse her partner.

"Mulder."

"Mmwhat? Where are we?"

"There's someone out there," she whispers, as though the people might be able to hear.

He's instantly alert, his movements jostling Isaac awake, too. Mulder digs into the pack at his feet, pulling out a pair of binoculars. The three of them climb out of the truck.

Mulder peers through the glass, panning slowly across the desert. "S' too dark. I don't see any—wait a minute…"

"Mulder?"

He fiddles with the settings, puts them back to his eyes. "Damn," he breathes. "Scully, look."

She takes the binoculars, and sure enough, there's activity on the horizon; a plume of dust, and behind it, faint lights, possibly the taillights of a vehicle. They shift left, then fade out of sight.

"You think our interstellar visitors have learned how to drive?" Mulder says drily, casting a sideways glance at his partner.

"Other people?" Isaac says, excitement creeping into his voice.

"Military, maybe," Scully says, squinting through the lenses once more, increasing the magnification until the scene dances in her vision. "For there to be that many…they must be military."

"We should backtrack before they see us," Mulder says. "We're sitting ducks out here."

"But…but what if they're like us?" Isaac asks.

Mulder shakes his head. "For all we know, the military was involved with the project, too—"

The boy swallows hard. "You…you don't know that."

"And neither do you," Mulder says. "You said it yourself—for whatever reason, your powers aren't working out here. We don't have any warning, and if they see us before we see them…"

Isaac groans in frustration, staring hard at the ground as Scully interjects. "We don't know they're part of the project. And if they're still alive, Mulder…they're protected, somehow. Maybe they already have…maybe they have facilities, we could…contribute. We wouldn't be alone."

Mulder looks at her in quiet disbelief, then to Isaac, realizing he's outnumbered.

"Let's try to get closer," she amends before he can protest, holding up the binoculars. "Tomorrow, when there's light. We'll backtrack a few miles, camp out of sight…come at it with fresh eyes."

Mulder's jaw tenses, but he ducks his head, climbs back into the truck. "Fine, OK. We'll check it out. Let's get out of here before they see us."

They do, retracing their route, veering south at the next available turn, putting space between them and the mysterious lights in the desert.

Their campsite is open, without any nearby forests or cliffs, and the lack of cover makes Scully uneasy. The sky is a never-ending expanse of black, and she stares up into the unimaginable depths of space until she's dizzy with it, her heart racing with unspoken fear.

At 4 a.m. she makes coffee, grateful for the heat of the mug against her restless fingers as she waits for Mulder and Isaac to wake. Mulder crawls out of the back of the truck before the sun peeks over the horizon, the shadows under his eyes suggesting he hasn't slept much, either, and accepts a mug of coffee for himself. They sip their drinks in silence, watching dawn paint the sky red.

"I see what's coming," Mulder says finally, swirling errant coffee grounds in laps around the bottom of his cup. "No matter what happens out there…I'm going to be outvoted, aren't I?"

There's no menace in his voice, just thoughtful contemplation.

"Mulder—"

"You don't need to explain yourself, Scully. I trust you, and I know where you're coming from. Really," he insists when she grimaces. "I'm not as stubborn as you think."

She arches an eyebrow in a disbelieving gesture that makes him smile.

"I won't let this separate us, and if it's what you and Isaac want…that's where I am, too. Just…let's be cautious," he murmurs, nodding in the direction of their imminent future. "We both know how deep this goes."

She swallows, purses her lips, but her thoughts are interrupted by the squeal of the truck's door opening. Isaac steps out, hands in his pockets, hair ruffled from sleep, but his eyes are sharp, focused. He doesn't bother with a greeting.

"So…when are we going?"

They park a mile from where they'd first seen the lights, but today there's no sign, not even with the binoculars. They drive at a snail's pace, and Isaac watches the skyline until his eyes burn, but no figures appear, no dust storms, and no lights.

It's not until they reach the reservation that something catches Isaac's attention; a road, verging to the right, unpaved but somehow distinct. Isaac, perhaps channeling the last vestiges of his extraterrestrial intuition, speaks up.

"Wait…stop. Here."

Scully pulls the truck onto the shoulder. "This?"

Isaac nods, squinting with the effort of focusing his mind on whatever might be out there, but he's not strong enough to sense it.

After a pause, Scully turns the truck onto the dirt path, throwing a cloud of dust behind them. A mile passes, then two, and suddenly there's a blur of activity on the horizon, barely noticeable save for flickering shadows that weave in an out, and a dark black line that stands out from the rest of the landscape like a sore thumb.

"What should we do?" Isaac asks.

"Somehow I don't think they'd appreciate us just walking in."

Scully sighs, peering through the binoculars. "Let's leave the car," she says, "If it goes bad, we'll have an out."

They walk. The dirt path goes on for what seems like forever, the limited foliage around them providing minimal shade. Isaac's hands and face are coated in a film of red-orange dust; he spits red-tinged phlegm onto the ground.

He notices tire marks along the ground; an old access road, perhaps, but it's been used recently. They're approaching mile four when they reach a padlocked chain-link fence across the road.

"End of the line," Mulder says, pacing along one side of the fence, searching for an alternate entrance.

"Can you pick it?" Isaac asks, peering at the lock.

He shakes his head. "My pen was in the laptop bag."

Isaac groans and sits down in the shade of a large cactus, careful not to touch his back to the spiny plant. "Now what?"

"I say we get the hell out," Mulder says. "This doesn't feel right. We're either locked out, or they're locked in; either way, there's a reason for it."

Isaac sees the muscles along Scully's jaw tighten in frustration, realizing that, for once, he wishes he knew what his parents were thinking. He takes a swallow of warm water from the bottle in his pack and closes his eyes against the unforgiving desert sun. If they turn around now, the return to the vehicle they left behind will be hot, exhausting, painful.

He's thinking about this when the ground beneath him begins to shudder. The vibration is slow at first, growing stronger, and in the distance, he can see dust billowing.

Scully faces away from the gate, trying to decide what to do, when Isaac points over her shoulder. "Someone's coming!"

Sure enough, there's a vehicle approaching from the other side of the locked gate.

"They must have seen us," Mulder says, looking wary. He suddenly grabs Scully's hand. "Give me your ring," he says quietly.

"What?"

"Just…give me the ring." He slips the wedding band off her finger; Isaac can see a pale circle of skin where it used to be.

"Mulder, what the—"

He kneels to Isaac's level, holding him by the shoulders. "You and the Doc were together, OK? You met me on the road."

He's holding something out to him; the hard drive; he must have pulled it from his pack, and now he pushes it into Isaac's hands. "Hide that, quick. Back pocket."

Isaac does, slipping the disc into his jeans pocket, nesting it in the folds of a weathered paperback.

Scully raises an eyebrow. "I don't get it, Mulder."

He stands. "If anyone's looking for us, they'll be expecting a couple traveling with a boy. As far as they're concerned, we're strangers. Got it?"

Scully pauses, then rubs out the clean spot on her finger with spit and a handful of sand, masking the place where her ring used to be. Mulder's fingers briefly entwine with hers until the truck pulls up.

"Shh, they're here."

Isaac's pulse picks up speed as the old truck coasts to a lazy stop with an audible creak. There are men inside, two of them.

 _They have guns._

The men get out of the vehicle, one large and muscular, the other tall and scrawny. They're clean, save for a day's hard work on their clothes. The silence draws out until Isaac is certain they're going to kill them on the spot.

 _And I can't fight back this time_ , he thinks, heartbeat steadily creeping upward.

"Howdy," Mulder says, faking a light country drawl.

The larger of the two steps forward, resting his hand on the chain-link gate. They haven't drawn the guns slung over their shoulders.

 _They wouldn't have brought them out of the cab if they didn't think they might need them_ , Isaac thinks. It's two weapons against one, and theirs are much bigger.

"Howdy," the man finally echoes, staring at the three with steely gray eyes. "Not a lot of folks come out this way."

Mulder nods, swallowing hard. "We saw your camp," he says, not bothering to lie. "Wondering if you had room for three more. We're pretty tired."

The men share a neutral look. "You have a car?" the scrawny one asks.

Scully shakes her head. "It broke down. We've been walking since Portales."

"Where'd you come from?"

"East," she says, the lie rolling off her tongue easily. "My son and I left Philadelphia a few weeks back."

Isaac feels Scully's hand on his shoulder, pulling him gently backward, protective. For once, Isaac welcomes the gesture, even if it's for show, a subtle shift in body language to establish their relationship.

"We were heading for the coast, I have family there…but I don't think they made it," she finishes, ducking her head in mock sorrow, letting her voice drop and tremble a bit.

The men don't appear moved. "And you?" the burly one says to Mulder, narrowing his eyes.

Mulder half-smiles, "I'm just along for the ride."

"We met him south of Little Rock," Scully interrupts, making sure to distance herself from her partner slightly, again, drawing invisible lines. "I thought we'd have a better shot at surviving if we had a man along." She smiles weakly. "My husband…my son's father…he's gone."

 _She's playing dumb_ , Isaac thinks. He feels Mulder shift beside them, equally uncomfortable at Scully's act. This may have been Mulder's idea, but she's the better actress.

"You gotta name?" the scrawny man speaks up, tilting his chin at Mulder.

"Hale," he says. "George Hale. And this is Mrs. Scully," he says, granting her silent permission to use her given name.

"What about you, kid?"

"Umm…Isaac," he says, and Scully gives his shoulder a brief squeeze.

 _Right answer. Good job._

There's a long pause as the men turn their backs, mumbling in low tones. Isaac wishes more than anything he could hear what they were thinking.

When they turn, their expressions are surprisingly open, if not friendly.

"We're going to open things up. But first, we need to see your weapons."

Isaac feels tension drawing lines along his back, and watches Mulder bite his lip, shifting his stance, visibly agitated. Isaac wonders if he'll do it.

"You'll get them back, don't worry," the other man says with a smile that's almost sheepish. "We just want to make sure it's a smooth ride for everyone."

Isaac watches Mulder's Adam's apple bob at his throat, his nostrils flare, but he pulls the revolver from his back pocket. Scully's hand tightens by a fraction on Isaac's shoulder.

"Drop it at the gate and step back," the man says, and Mulder does, casting a sly look in Scully's direction that says, _We're all in._

"That's all I've got," Mulder says evenly. "They don't have anything."

"Mind if we do a pat-down? Just to be safe," the man grins again, and Scully flinches, the tiniest of twitches against Isaac's back, but she keeps her head down as the men open the gate, bending over to pick up the gun.

"Easy does it," the burly man says, approaching Scully, whose face has gone stoic and closed. She gently pushes Isaac away with a soft, "Go ahead," and raises her arms.

Mulder is watching his every move, and Isaac can see the dull rage in his eyes when the larger man runs a hand up Scully's inner thigh, then back down the other. It's quick, perfunctory, but Isaac himself almost launches himself at the man in retaliation. Scully gives a quick shake of her head.

 _Don't._

"She's clean," the man says over his shoulder, then, "Sorry m'am, we can't take any chances."

She gives a tight nod, but her eyes shine.

The other man makes quick work of Mulder, and gives Isaac a cursory pat-down. He pauses over the bulge in the back pocket of Isaac's jeans, where the hard drive remains tucked away under the paperback's worn pages.

"S'one of my favorites," Isaac murmurs, hoping his nervousness doesn't show. The man grunts a noncommittal response, and Isaac breathes a silent sigh of relief when he moves away.

"We still don't know your names," Mulder says, trying to keep the edge from his voice, although Isaac can sense his agitation.

"I'm Bruce," the large man says, a name fitting for his stature; he doesn't offer his hand. "And this is Jay."

Mulder snorts. "I'd say 'nice to meet you' but I think we're beyond pleasantries," he mutters, and Scully shoots him a warning look. The men don't seem to notice.

"Just a formality, Mr. Hale," Bruce replies, turning his back, gesturing for them to follow. "Y'all climb in back. We'll take you to the compound."

"Compound?" Scully mouths as they climb into the bed of the pickup. The window between the cab and the back is closed, and they sit along the sides of the bed so as not to be heard by the two men. Dust swirls around them, and Isaac wipes at his eyes.

"Nice acting back there," Mulder murmurs in quiet appreciation, nudging Scully's shoulder. "You had me convinced."

"Better for them to underestimate me."

"You expecting this to go wrong?"

She sighs. "Just being careful." She rubs at the empty spot on her finger, then reaches back, undoing the clasp on the gold chain that holds her cross. "Here," she murmurs, passing the necklace to Mulder. "Keep the ring on this, so you don't lose it."

He smirks, glancing at the cab window to ensure the men aren't watching, then back to Scully as she strings the ring and fastens the chain around his neck, tucking it beneath his shirt.

"What makes you think I'd lose it?"

"I know you."

His smirks in agreement.

Isaac leans over the side of the truck bed to catch a glimpse of their destination, a large grey and black structure that creeps closer and closer. The sharp _clunk_ of the cab window opening startles him, and he's thrown back by the force of the truck's momentum.

"Watch it, kid," the man called Jay laughs.

"You're lucky," Bruce calls over his shoulder; he's driving, not taking particular care, and the truck bounces and bumps over the rough dirt. "We don't get out this way often, it's the furthest gate at the perimeter. You would've been out there a long time."

Mulder tips his head back with a grimace but doesn't say anything. Bruce continues, "Not the kind of place you want to spend the night."

"You're telling us," Mulder mutters.

The compound cuts a gray-black angle against the sky, looming. Isaac's heart throbs in his chest, his hands slick on the sides of the truck as they pull up to the structure.

"Home sweet home," Mulder murmurs as they slide off the truck.

"This way," says Jay. The two men saunter toward the entrance easily, waving to a young woman in the distance, who's stopped to stare at the newcomers for a moment before going back to her work.

The interior of the facility is just as cold and impersonal as the outside—white and gray walls, nondescript tile floors, drop ceilings with fluorescent runners down the middle.

"It ain't the Ritz," cracks Bruce, amused at his own originality. "Welcome to the compound."

They pass several gray, unmarked doors; Isaac can't tell if the others are nervous or playing along. He's lost without his third eye, his stomach turns at the sickly sweet smell of antibacterial soap. The long, empty hallway reminds him of his dreams.

"In here," Bruce says, stepping aside at one of the unmarked doors. "Not you," he amends, gesturing for Mulder to follow him. Scully's hand grips Isaac's shoulder hard enough to leave an imprint and he sucks in a sharp breath.

 _They're going to separate us._

"You'll see your friend again, Mrs. Scully," the man continues, sensing her unease.

"He stays with me," she says fiercely, and Isaac realizes she's talking about him, not Mulder.

"Sure, no problem," Bruce shrugs. "You two wait in there, I'll get the doc."

Mulder casts a meaningful glance over his shoulder before following Bruce further down the hall.

The door closes behind them, and Scully visibly shrinks, as if letting out a long-held breath.

"You OK?" she whispers, hand to Isaac's back.

He nods. "Are you?"

"So far so good," she looks around, noting three empty chairs, a rolling cart, a box of cotton swabs. "This must be some kind of medical intake, to ensure we're not infected. They can't be too serious about it, though. No masks."

"I don't think they get many people like us," Isaac says, frowning at the thought of the miles of perimeter. "What about Mulder?"

She smiles, but it's not particularly reassuring. "He'll be fine. I think they're just being careful."

Isaac snorts. "That's 'cause we're not a threat."

"You still can't hear anything?"

He shakes his head. "Can't move things, either."

She bites her lip, and the door opens before she can continue. A woman enters, an oversized white coat draped over her petite frame, giving the impression of a little girl who hasn't quite grown into her new clothes.

"Hi, I'm Carol, I'm here to do your intake?"

The statement comes out as a question. Scully frowns at the embroidery on the woman's oversized coat—it reads _Janitorial_ —and Carol looks down in confusion, then laughs.

"Oh, that," she chuckles, wild gray hair bobbing around her heart-shaped face. "We make do with what we have. I'm a doctor."

Her glasses slide down her nose, and she pushes them back. Unlike the men who brought them to the compound, she holds out her hand in greeting, and Scully takes it.

"I'm Dana," she says. "This is my son, Isaac."

"Welcome, welcome," the woman says. "I have to ask, how did you find us? We haven't seen anyone new in weeks."

"We were heading west, to see family. We took a wrong turn somewhere back at the reservation and…here we are," Scully says, her voice light.

"Seems like it was a right turn rather than a wrong one," the woman says brightly. "You're lucky to have found us."

"And…what is this place, exactly?" Scully asks. "The men who brought us here weren't very forthcoming."

"It's something, huh? Especially after what you've been through, I can understand why you're curious."

Scully purses her lips, waits through an uncomfortable pause until the other woman continues.

"We all felt like that when the virus hit, of course. Unmoored." There's a pause, a chink in her cheerful demeanor. "But then Mosely found us, brought us here."

"Mosely?"

"He's our…well, he's our leader, I suppose. He found survivors. He knew about this place, knew the…the things wouldn't come here. Without him, we would have been goners. The…the creatures don't seem to like it out here."

"How many live here?"

"We're 156 now," Carol says, once again smiling. "After you and your son, and your…"

"Friend," Scully interjects.

"Ahh, yes," Carol demurs, an awkward pause, then continues. "Before we get you settled, I need to do a medical exam."

Scully narrows her eyes. "You'd know if we were infected."

"Oh, we don't think you're infected, but you've been traveling a long time. It's standard procedure," she reassures. "Then you'll be given rooms, a place to stay. We hope you'll stay."

Scully smiles, but doesn't offer anything further.

The exam is quick, like a checkup at the doctor's office. Carol's hands are soft against Isaac's throat as she checks his lymph nodes, and she momentarily blinds him with a penlight, testing his pupils' reaction. He gasps lightly when she presses the cold stethoscope against his chest.

Scully's turn is next.

"Oh, your shoulder!" the nurse remarks, removing the bandage from Scully's healing wound. "That's a nasty scratch. How…?"

Scully fixes her gaze on Isaac as she talks. "It was foolish, really. We were hiking…I fell, caught myself on a tree branch on the way down. Thankfully it didn't get infected."

"You've taken good care of it," the nurse muses, unaware of the silent conversation going on behind her as she redresses the wound with fresh gauze.

The most invasive part of the procedure is the drawing of a single vial of blood from each of them—"Just a regular CBC," the nurse says. Isaac doesn't tell Carol about his good vein the way he did with Scully, a show of good faith. It takes two tries to get the needle into the wrong arm.

"You've got a stubborn one there," the nurse jokes as they watch the blood spurt into the tube. Isaac makes a noncommittal sound in his throat while Carol chats idly.

"There are other kids here, you know," she says. "Several, actually. We've even set up a school. Do you like school, Isaac?"

"It's alright."

"You're so lucky to have your mom here, you know."

"Mr. Hale was there, too," he returns. "They both protected me."

Scully's lips quirk upward, softening at his loyalty. "Speaking of…where is George?" she asks, the timbre of her voice betraying her nerves.

"Oh, he'll be out soon," Carol says absently, offering Isaac a Band-Aid. She turns to Scully, applying a tourniquet above her elbow.

"I'd like to see him, and thank him for helping us out back there. We've grown quite close…"

Isaac watches Carol's face, looking for signs of deception, but the nurse is focused on finding a vein. "I'm sure, I'm sure. Think that's it…just a pinch," the nurse says. Scully winces as the needle goes in, and there's no further talk of Mulder's whereabouts.

"All done! Now, let's go see your new rooms."

Carol leads them deeper into the compound, chattering lightly as they go.

"The cafeteria is that way," she says, gesturing to a hallway on the right. "You'll be staying in the dorms back here; the accommodations aren't much, but we have hot water and real beds.

"It used to be a research facility," the nurse continues, ducking into what looks like a supply closet to grab two plastic cards. "Mosely worked here until he retired; the scientists would stay in the dorms for months at a time, we think they were studying nuclear weapons fusion, which probably explains the remote location."

Scully raises an eyebrow. "Isn't there concern about radiation?"

"Oh no, no no, that project was retired years ago, any of the nukes were cleared out. No one was using this place at all by the time the infection hit. Just another empty funnel for taxpayer dollars," Carol says drily.

"Right," Scully murmurs.

"Well, here you go," Carol says, pulling up to the door of a nondescript room. "I assume you'd prefer separate rooms?"

Scully looks down at Isaac, questioning, and he shrugs.

"You'll be right next door to your mom, OK, kiddo?"

"Yeah, sure," he says, watching the nurse put the keycard into the door, punching in a series of numbers.

"There, the key is active now," she says, handing it to Isaac, who tucks it into his pocket. "Don't lose that."

"Won't," he mumbles, as the door opens on a small, gray room, a twin bed.

"There's a dorm bathroom down the hall," the nurse says. "It's shared, but there are three showers. I'd suggest going at night to avoid the morning rush," she smiles. "Why don't you get settled in, and I'll show your mom to her room. It's that one," she says, pointing to the gray door a few feet to their right.

The room is decorated like a military bunk, which is to say, devoid of decoration; there's a metal bed frame with the springs built in, a thin mattress rolled on top. The sheets are scratchy but clean and white, the pillow is brand new, the blanket rough wool. There's little else save for a small desk, a lamp, and a closet.

When the door is closed behind him, Isaac breathes out a soft huff, normalcy catching up to him in a wave of exhaustion. The mental strain of reading people was difficult, but now he looks into eyes that give away no secrets, minds that keep their thoughts locked in. So this is what it's like to be normal.

He sits down on the bed, testing its buoyancy, and hugs his backpack to his chest.

Carol takes her leave, but not before offering to take Scully and Isaac to the cafeteria.

"Dinner starts at 6; tonight is soy meatloaf. If I'm being honest, you're going to want to stick to the mashed potatoes and salad," she says.

Scully chuckles. "Thank you, but I think I'd rather clean up, get settled. I'm not very hungry," she admits, and this, at least, is the truth.

"Suit yourself," the nurse says. "Someone will be by to check in on you in the morning, make sure you're settling in. It was nice to meet you!"

The woman has already left before Scully realizes she's forgotten to ask where Mulder is staying.

 _Damn. He'll have to find me._

She pushes aside her unease and steps into her new room. It's decidedly larger than what she glimpsed of Isaac's bunk. There's a double bed, a wardrobe, all of the furniture cheap and military issue. Inside the wardrobe she finds a change of clothes—a t-shirt, sweatpants, and socks—too big, but they'll work until she can figure out how to get something fitted.

 _It must have been a lab once_ , she thinks, judging by the size and the arrangement, as strict and straight-edged as the building's gray facade. Even the desk looks like a lab bench.

There's a bathing area in the corner, tile floor and walls surrounded by a thin curtain, with a large metal sink and a single bar of white soap on the shelf; an old emergency shower. Curious, Scully pulls the chain, starting the flow of water, strong and steamy.

Suddenly she realizes just how dirty she is; her hair stringy and matted, her skin covered in a shellac of dust and sweat, and the undersides of her fingernails are black.

Self-consciousness is a luxury she can't afford, but in this sterile, barren room, she feels out of place; like someone might scold her for mussing the furniture. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror—the first long look after days of seeing herself reflected in the side of the car, the rearview, scant glances that give her no idea of the greater picture—and the color of her eyes against her sun-browned skin is startling and unfamiliar.

Within minutes, her clothes are piled next to the door, and she's watching the brown-gray bubbles wash down the drain, flowing off her body in warm, soothing rivulets. When the water runs clear, she begins working on her hair, removing the worst tangles with help from the soap, making a mental note to look for a comb when she's done.

She doesn't hear the room door open, nor the footsteps approaching. Suddenly there's a shadow at the corner of the curtain, and a warm, low voice. "Room for two?"

Her shriek is worthy of a horror movie, and Mulder grins from behind the curtain.

"Mulder!"

"Shh, sorry, sorry," he says, but he doesn't look sorry at all; a self-satisfied smirk tells her he's enjoying the view. "The question stands, _Mrs._ Scully. You got the good room, mine doesn't have a private shower."

She arches an eyebrow at the honorific, but draws the curtain aside, indicating for him to join her.

"Thanks," he says, already undressing, his clothes leaving dirty trails across the floor.

"How the hell did you get in, anyway?" she says over the rush of the water.

"The locks on these doors are old; the guys showed me how to get around them once. Came in handy when we were breaking into certain unnamed government facilities."

She pokes her head around the curtain, met with her partner's sly grin. "It's true," he continues. "You put a slip of foil over the magnetic strip and press the same number in rapid succession to overload the circuit and the thing unlocks. It's painfully easy."

Scully can't help but roll her eyes. "The nurse said the facility was used for nuclear testing back in the 70's."

"That explains the outdated security," he agrees, calling out from behind the curtain. She can see the vague outline of him hopping on his good leg in an attempt to get one dirt-encrusted sock off.

"You know, it's going to look suspicious if anyone sees us sharing a room, Mulder, let alone a shower."

"Mmm," he says, stepping in. "Tell 'em we're environmentally conscientious."

She snorts, but smiles and hands him the soap. He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and her smile becomes a broad grin, heady from finally feeling clean for the first time in weeks.

His soapy hands slide around her waist and she yelps in mock surprise. "Mulder, you're still filthy."

"You could help with that," he says, leaning forward, his voice dropping an octave, its husky timbre registering somewhere deep in her belly.

His lips are touching her ear, and she shivers a little. She doesn't protest when his hands slip around her once more and his mouth meets hers in a familiar kiss.

When his tongue grazes the edges of her lips, asking permission, she sighs and the release is almost instantaneous. Her body softens against him, but she doesn't let go so easily. She grabs the soap back and begins working it into his chest, revealing a deep tan beneath the crust of dirt. She can almost hear the muscles of his back sighing with relief as she works her fingers into the tender spots.

"The service in this place isn't half bad," he says, watching her hands with dilated eyes as she circles one nipple, trailing down, down…

"Oh, you haven't seen service yet," she murmurs. His Adam's apple bobs at his throat beneath a week's stubbly beard.

"Then show me." His hands are on her shoulders, spinning her roughly around to face the white tile wall, his body pressed to her back like a hot, wet, muscular blanket.

"Ahh," is all she can manage when he brings his hands around to caress her breasts. His hips grind against her back, undulating against the sensitive skin, and she lets out a soft moan as she's pressed firmly into the shower wall, taut nipples making contact with the cold tile, sending shivers up and down her spine.

The slightest touch is enough to make her gasp—she's oversensitive, her body untouched. She'd been too concerned with their survival to think about it, but now her libido is in overdrive, trying to make up for lost time. If the hardness at her back is any indication, Mulder knows the feeling.

"God, Scully," he moans, his breath on her neck, kissing and nipping at the salty flesh, soap-slick hands sliding across all the places she wants to be touched.

When she can take his teasing hands no more, she turns to face him, her breathing coming in shallow pants. "Now," she murmurs. She's pressing him to her, hands on his ass, but the height difference makes a more intimate connection impossible.

"Can't," he pants, mouth still on hers, and she regrets every second he has to tear it away, "my leg—"

"Mmm, bed then," she says, reaching up to turn off the shower, her words coming out in a love-drunk slur ( _mmmbedthen_ ) as she tugs on his wrist.

It's five steps to the bed, and each one feels like an Olympic feat. She doesn't want to stop touching him, doesn't want to stop being touched, but at some point they find their rhythm and she falls gracelessly onto her back on the mattress. He's on her and inside her before she can finish saying his name.

His hands wander her body like travelers across unmapped territory. Her soul holds the ancient mysteries of the universe, and her body is the combination lock, opening over and over with reverence. He rocks his hips forward and she thinks of ocean waves, cresting and withdrawing, cresting and withdrawing, the ebb and flow of their own universal tide…

 _Oh! There…_

He's murmuring in her ear, whispering sweet words of encouragement and love, and the tidal wave drowns her in one long, endless stretch. Mulder isn't far behind, collapsing on top of her with a soft groan. She gives it a minute, two, before nudging the back of his bare calf with her foot.

"Mulder."

"Mmph."

"Mulder, you're crushing me."

"S'cause you killed me," he slurs, lips brushing the shell of her ear, sending pleasant goosebumps down her arms and legs.

She snorts, running her fingers through his damp hair, drawing her thumbs gently along the scars at his temples until he stirs, heavy-lidded and smelling of her. "In my professional estimation as a medical doctor, I'd say you're very much alive."

"Wanna second opinion," he says, but he lifts himself up and crawls to the head of the bed to pull back the covers.

"I don't think you're ready for a second opinion," she smirks, following him into the recesses of the bed, which, despite the thin, industrial mattress, is infinitely more comfortable than the back of the truck. She wants to talk, to recount the events of the last several hours, to ponder the surreal circumstances leading to this moment, but Mulder is already drifting, the wear and tear of the last several weeks catching up to him. She finds herself lulled by the steady rush of his breath, and soon she, too, is asleep.

She wakes feeling stiff and groggy, her inner thighs aching with a pleasant heat. The room is dark, Mulder's arm is heavy around her. She chides herself for allowing him to stay.

 _So much for our cover._

Her next thought is of Isaac, and she extracts herself from Mulder's grasp to pad to the wardrobe, pulling on the loose-fitting t-shirt and sweatpants. There's a threadbare robe, and she throws this on as well, stepping over her and Mulder's dirty clothes and into the dimly lit hall.

She knocks softly on the door, then uses her spare key to open it just a crack; she's surprised to find the light on, Isaac sitting up in his twin bed with a book in his lap.

"Isaac?"

His head snaps up, and she's greeted with a soft smile.

"Hey, how're you doing?"

"I'm good," he says, holding up his book, something by Stephen King. "They have a library."

"You've been exploring?" she asks, taking a seat on the end of the bed.

"Yeah, I couldn't sleep."

"It's late," she says without admonishment.

"I know. Hey, Doc?"

"Mmm?"

"I…I still can't hear anything," he says, and the worry is back on his face, a complete transformation. "And I can't move things. Watch."

He concentrates on his book, willing it to move, and she can see the determination in the furrows of his brow, but nothing happens. "I don't know why it doesn't work," he says. "I…is that bad?"

She swallows, realizing she doesn't know. She knows so little about him, really, and doubts that science would ever be able to uncover such a mystery in her lifetime. Possibly not even in his.

But she pushes the thought aside. "Let's not worry about it yet, OK? How do you feel?"

"I feel…good. Great, actually," he says. "It's…so quiet. I can actually hear myself think."

"And what are you thinking?" she asks.

Isaac pauses, then grins again. "That it's nice to have a real bed."

She laughs. "Amen to that," then, standing, she says, "Get some rest, don't stay up…we have a big day tomorrow."

"Yeah, I know. Just want to finish this chapter."

She nods, feels unexpected emotion well up in the back of her throat.

Maybe being among the living will do them all some good.


	11. Chapter 11

JUNE 20, 2015

7:35 A.M.

THE COMPOUND

NEW MEXICO

Mulder's half of the bed is empty by the time Scully wakes again, but she doesn't have time to dwell on it; there's a knock at the door.

"Yeah?" she asks, bleary-eyed as she opens it to find a young woman with bright green eyes and a relentless smile.

"Hi…Mrs. Scully?"

"That's me," she says, suddenly self-conscious. Her bra is somewhere on the floor behind her, and Mulder's dirty clothes are still strewn about in front of the shower. She forces a smile for this woman who's stopped by unannounced, but eases the door around her body so she can't see into the room.

"I just wanted to check in on you…I'm Mary. I heard you came in last night."

"Yes…hi," Scully returns, squinting.

"I just wanted to introduce myself, and ask if you needed anything?"

"I, umm—"

"Hey!"

Mulder's face appears over Mary's shoulder, saving Scully the trouble of a response.

"Mm—George, this is Mary. She's the welcoming committee."

Mary beams. "Hi Mr. Hale, I was just about to tell your friend here that breakfast is in the cafeteria, and ask if you wanted to come with me? I can show you around."

"That's really nice, Mary, but I'm going to rest up today," Mulder says. Scully arches an eyebrow as he continues smoothly, "I'm beat, we've done a lot of traveling and I have a bum leg. But I bet Dana would be happy to join you."

"Oh, great!" Mary says, eyes shining, and Scully forces another smile. "You said you have a son?"

"Yes...Isaac...he's there," she says, gesturing to his door. "I'll, uhh, get him and be right with you. I need to get dressed," she says. "Carol showed us the cafeteria yesterday, can I meet you there?"

"Great, I'll see you soon," Mary says, beaming.

"Thanks," Scully says, watching the woman retreat before turning back to her partner, muttering under her breath, "Thanks for ditching me, Mulder. Feels like old times. What are you planning?"

"I wanna check things out," Mulder says under his breath after Mary has turned the corner, out of earshot. "I don't want to get too comfortable."

"It's not overrun with extraterrestrials; how much safer can we get?"

"That's what I want to find out. Oh," he says, reaching behind him, to the back pocket of the new jeans that look about an inch too short. "I found this in my room."

He pulls out the pistol, and Scully feels a twinge of relief. "They gave it back."

"Just like they said they would," Mulder says, frowning.

"That's good—a sign of good faith."

"They're obviously not worried about us," he murmurs. "Which tells me they're genuine, or one gun isn't going to matter against whatever they're hiding."

She resists rolling her eyes, but he's already moved on. "Anyway, I'll be around," he says.

She nods. "Be careful."

"Scully, you wound me. Since when am I not careful?" he says in mock offense, leaning in to plant a quick peck on her cheek.

She sighs, turning her back and heading to Isaac's door. _Tap-tap-tap._

"Isaac? You awake?"

There's a shuffling sound behind the door, then he's standing at the threshold, looking just as sleepy as she.

"I'm awake," he says with a yawn.

"Want to join me for breakfast? We have a new friend who wants to meet us," she says drily. "They're friendly here."

"Where's M—I mean, uh, George?" he coughs.

"He's...going exploring," she says, lowering her voice, even though there's no one else in the hallway save for them. "He'll catch up later. Go ahead and get dressed; then we'll find out how bad the cooking is."

They meet in the same spot a few minutes later, Isaac's hair still fluffy from sleep. She resists the urge to smooth it down.

The sounds of cheerful voices, clinking silverware, and clacking trays echo through the hall as they enter the cafeteria. Mary waves from a table across the room, approaching with what Scully has already come to think of as her trademark smile. Scully feels herself return the grin, though her cheeks have begun to ache.

"Dana! This must be Isaac," she says as the boy fidgets, drawing back. "I bet you haven't seen many other kids your age, huh? There's a whole table of them over there," she says, pointing to a table of curious onlookers. "Why don't you go make some new friends?"

Isaac glances at Scully, who shrugs her approval. Mary is already walking to the serving counter.

"I hope you like eggs," she says, wrinkling her nose slightly as the cook dips her spoon into a tub of yellow fluff. Scully's mouth waters at the thought of a meal that hasn't come from a box or a can. "They're powdered. We grow and scavenge what we can, but it's not very safe outside the fences."

"I can imagine…"

The woman looks at her, all open-faced sympathy. "I bet you can. How was it out there? I mean, how did you make it? You said you were from the east? God, it's a miracle you came this far."

"We were very lucky," she agrees, averting her eyes. "So how do you get water here? It's a desert; you must have to pipe it in?"

"The engineering team can tell you more about it, but there were pipes run underground back when this place was used by the feds. There are wind centers quite a ways out, for electricity," Mary explains. "And the facility was prepared with solar backups, though we haven't had to rely on those yet. We have everything we need."

Scully accepts a mug of coffee—the real stuff, not instant—and a bowl of fruit. She glances over her shoulder to check for Isaac, who appears to be the talk of the table. Mary's voice draws her attention away before she can catch his eye.

"So have you been assigned yet?"

"Assigned?" Scully asks as they take a seat at a small table along the perimeter. There are perhaps seventy men and women eating in the room with them, all of them trying not to make their interest in the new people obvious. She tries to ignore the attention, basking in the aroma of her coffee.

"Mmhmm. You'll be assigned to a team," Mary says, nibbling at her fruit. "What did you do? Before the infection, I mean."

"Ahh…I was a medical doctor," Scully says.

"Oh?" Mary breathes. "Another one. Well, we pretty much have that covered…"

Scully raises an eyebrow. "Really? A community this size?"

"You met Carol—Dr. Stevens—when you checked in. I'm a nurse myself, but we don't get many patients. Laborers are in short supply, though. Are you any good with gardening?"

"Umm," Scully says, thinking of the houseplant she'd kept at their farmhouse, the one that always drooped. "I'm happy to learn," she says.

Mary beams. "Peter would take you in a heartbeat. He's a scientist by trade, but he's done wonders for the greenhouses here. I think he's overwhelmed, though he'd never admit it. Have you met Mosely?"

"Ahh, no. I've heard of him. He's the leader here?"

"He heads the medical team," she says. "I'm sure you'll meet him at the next gathering, he likes to check in with the newcomers. We haven't had many of you lately; if I'm being honest, you're the talk of the town right now," she says, leaning forward.

"You said that before…not many survivors left, I take it. Are there other communities?"

"Oh…I don't think so," she says. "We'd have heard about them by now."

"You said there was a gathering?"

"Once a week on Wednesdays. That's tomorrow, actually. You'll get to meet everyone. You came in with Mr. Hale, right?"

"Yes," Scully says, almost too quickly. "Yes, he's, ahh, a friend. My son and I met him on the road. He helped us," she says, careful to keep it simple, not to embellish with details she'll forget later.

"He seems nice," Mary says carefully. "You had a husband?"

"Yes, he passed away."

Mary's face falls. "I'm so sorry. The infection?"

"No," she says. "I was a widow. It's been just me and Isaac for a while."

"Oh…well…I'm sorry for your loss."

Scully sips her coffee, blowing lightly to clear the steam. "Did you lose anyone?"

"I did," the woman says. "My mom and sister…I still don't know why I was spared."

Scully frowns, remembering her last conversation with her mother.

"But we were spared," Mary continues with forced cheer. "Mosely says we're survivors. We are."

Scully's lips twitch upward in a smile, but it's too difficult to consider them lucky.

Mary checks her watch. "I'm not on shift until 10. Would you like a tour in the meantime? It's not much, but it's home."

Scully accepts, and they make their way to the front to deposit their trays. She casts a last look over her shoulder at Isaac's table, but the kids—including Isaac—cleared out while they were talking.

"Oh, don't worry about him," Mary says. "They're probably showing him around. You know how kids are with new people—he's practically a celebrity."

Scully nods, but can't quell the nagging fear at being separated, and makes a mental note to find him as soon as the tour is done.

The compound is larger than it looks from the outside, much of it situated underground. The dorms are the first level, but the lab areas and work spaces are located below. They take an elevator to the second floor, opening into the main part of the hospital wing.

"We haven't had many major injuries, thank God. We rarely have a full ward," says Mary as they walk. "I think there are only three beds occupied today, two of them are precautionary. Stomach bug going around."

"Have you seen any infected since you settled here?"

"Not one," she says.

"And you don't find that unusual?"

Mary frowns. "It's unusual, but we've just been so…so grateful…"

"You didn't want to question a good thing," Scully says, finishing the thought.

"Yes, exactly."

"So you haven't made any attempts to study the virus?"

"Not that I'm aware."

Scully doesn't have a chance to press further, swallowing her disappointment as they round a corner.

"This is the generator room, the emergency power supply, and storage," Mary says, gesturing to the short hallway, three doors. "The third level down is more storage and waste processing, I won't bother you with that," she says as they head back to the elevator and up to the first floor.

"These wings are dorms," she continues as they pass three hallways. "And down this way is the school."

The "school" is a single room, a former lab divided by four large, round tables. Two teachers address the group as Scully peers in through a small window in the door.

"Robert was a physics Ph.D.," Mary murmurs. "He does grades 1-8. Steven has a medical degree, but when the hospital work is slow, he does the high school and college levels."

"College?" Scully asks, eyebrow raised. "They look young."

"They're a bright group. They get a lot of one-on-one attention here, as you can probably imagine."

"Mmm," Scully says, then frowns, noticing the great number of blonde and red-haired children. "Are they…wow, are they from the same family?"

"Ahh, you noticed," Mary beams. "We have three sets of triplets, and a set of twins. The rest are singletons; most are orphans."

Scully spots Isaac at the back, sitting with a group of two girls and two boys who look about his age. So rare are these moments, when she can fully take him in from a distance, that she stops Mary with a touch on the elbow.

"They're fine. I don't want to interrupt."

"Suit yourself. There's not much more to it; you've seen the meeting hall—that's the cafeteria. Let's go outside, and I'll introduce you to Peter."

They exit the compound through a different door than the one they came in yesterday; the hall is brighter, with windows, perhaps a former reception area in the building's long-forgotten youth. The outside is landscaped— _or used to be_ , she thinks—with shrubs and cacti dotting the path to what looks like a former parking lot, now covered with sand.

They walk around the complex, which Scully is surprised to find is built into the side of a large rock formation, jutting out like a large gray brick from the burnt red landscape. Unlike its many winding underground passageways, the structure is nearly a perfect square.

Mary shows her the greenhouses—two of them, makeshift, but sturdy. "And this," she says, stepping into one of the greenhouses, the larger of the two, "is Peter."

The man turns around; he's balding, wears glasses, and instantly reminds Scully of Skinner. _But his face is kinder_ , Scully thinks as shakes the man's slim hand.

"I've heard a lot about you," he says in greeting.

"Already? Jay and...and..." Scully struggles, trying to remember the other man's name.

"Bruce," Peter fills in for her. "Yeah, they're the muscle around here," he smirks. "Have to keep the rest of us wimps in check. Are you a gardener, Dana?"

Scully bites the inside of her cheek. "Actually, I'm a doctor, but I'm told you have an opening here. I'm interested, if you'll have me."

Peter looks her up and down, then gives a slight shrug. "I don't see why not. Can always use an extra pair of hands."

"Oh, look at the time. I need to get to work," Mary chirps. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Scully—"

"Please, call me Dana."

"Are you OK here? You know how to get back in?"

"I'll show her," Peter says amiably.

"Great. I'll see you at dinner, then."

"Sure," Scully says, turning back to Peter, who's tending a particularly bright specimen of… _something_ , she thinks, realizing she has no idea what kind of plant it is.

"Want to get started? I can show you how to prune the new fruit trees, they're overdue."

Scully turns to him and gives him her best can-do smile. "Show me where to start."

Mulder's footsteps echo down one of many hallways, but this one is oddly dark, unlike its fluorescent counterparts upstairs. He'd found the elevator, discovered the second and third levels, but so far all he's found for his trouble is...

 _...junk_ , he thinks, surveying a room full of equipment that time forgot. There are musty mattresses and furniture, cardboard boxes that open open to reveal simple laboratory equipment, office supplies, and reams of dusty paper. Nothing out of the ordinary.

 _It's too easy_ , he thinks, remembering how they'd struggled. The attack on Scully, the lingering sense that something was always watching. How an entire clan of people could hide out in the desert, virtually untouched for weeks at a time, and have everything they needed at hand…

 _Like someone knew this was coming._

Mulder frowns, closing the door on the fourth random junk room he's explored. He walks, taking lefts and rights until he reaches dead ends, then turns back to start the process all over again.

 _Room to grow_ , he thinks, remembering how his mother used to buy him shoes two sizes too big, because they knew he'd be straining the seams in six months.

He hasn't done the math, but he knows that a population of approximately 150 people divided by the pre-outbreak population of the United States is several fractions of a percentage point. They're facing an army with the equivalent of a toothpick for a weapon.

And yet…this community in the middle of the desert is pristine in its seclusion, its virtual peace. He hasn't seen a weapon since the two guards picked them up at the border, and they weren't quick to draw.

He muses on this as he makes his way back to the elevator. He's about to push the button when the machinery groans and shudders, signaling its descent from the ground floor.

Startled, and not quite knowing why, he ducks into one of the nearby rooms, letting the door snick shut just as the elevator doors slide open. Voices and footsteps outside; he catches bits and pieces of the conversation between two men, but can't see their faces yet, crouching behind the door's narrow glass window.

"…new ones, just came in last night."

"…she's a doctor, apparently. Not sure what the guy does, he wasn't in his bunk when Rich went to check on him this morning." Bruce's voice is recognizable.

Mulder slips out of the room behind them, careful not to let the door's hydraulic hinge squawk, and follows the echo of the mens' voices down the hall, turning a corner in time to see them disappear into a room. He waits a moment before sidling up to the door.

 _No window._

He moves to the next door instead, but it's dark, unlocked, and a glance inside reveals more clutter. He's backing out when a voice speaks from over his shoulder.

"Looking for something?"

The man is tall, about Mulder's height, with stark, close-cropped white hair. His eyes shine in the dim, fluorescent light, and there's a commanding air about him despite his casual attire. Without introduction, Mulder knows this must be the compound's self-professed leader.

"Uh, yeah, guess I'm lost," Mulder coughs. "This place is a maze."

The man considers this, studying Mulder's eyes, and then appears to relax. "Of course, it is. You must be Mr. Hale? George, right?"

Mulder nods warily, wondering if he's about to be dragged off into a darkened corner.

"I'm sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Mosely, Robert Mosely."

The man holds out his hand, and Mulder takes it. "I hear you're the man to talk to around here."

Mosely smiles, revealing deep crinkles around his eyes, but aside from the white hair, his face looks young. "That depends on what you want to talk about. I take it you were looking for the cafeteria?"

"I—yeah, I'm starving," Mulder lies. "Got turned around."

"Easy to do," Mosely says smoothly. "Walk with me?"

They pass the locked room from which Mosely must have exited, and Mulder notes there's no sign of the other man. Mulder, in his renowned impatience, feels himself asking the question before he can fully think it through.

"What's in there?"

Mosely glances over his shoulder, but doesn't blink. "Ahh, that's the waste management system. I had engineering down here to take a look, the west wing's backed up. We keep it locked; don't want the children getting in," he says, stepping aside to let Mulder enter the elevator.

"Yeah…kids. They like to get into trouble," Mulder murmurs.

"Not unlike some adults I know," Mosely smirks. "So what is it you do, Mr. Hale? Or, I suppose I should say, did?"

Mulder bends the truth easily. "I was a writer, actually."

"Anything I'd know?"

"God, I hope not. Never got published."

"Well, there's a first time for everything."

"Not much of a market for us literary types. But this…this is quite an effort you have here," he says. "You seem to have everything you need for your people; food, water…protection…"

Mosely nods. "Yes, I think you'll find we're very safe here. It's incredibly fortunate you and your friends made it this far without falling prey. How was that, exactly?"

"It was no picnic, if that's what you're asking."

"Mm. You were attacked?"

"How'd you know?"

"Your friend had injuries—I'm sorry," he says, noting Mulder's alarm. "I don't mean to pry, but we're a close group. Word gets around."

"Thankfully the damage was minor," Mulder swallows, feeling the man's eyes on him, studying him.

"You have no idea how lucky you are, Mr. Hale."

Mulder is about to ask what he means by this when Mosely interrupts.

"Well, here we are, this is the cafeteria. They're just finishing up breakfast, but there's cereal, fruit, the usual staples. Mr. Hale—"

"Call me George."

"Ahh—George, then. I have business to attend to in the medical ward this morning…but I'd love to take you on a tour of the compound if you're available later."

Mulder raises an eyebrow. "I'm sure you have better things to do than hold the newbies' hands, Mose—can I call you Mose?"

The man's distaste is almost imperceptible, but Mulder sees it, a flicker, light a like switch going on and off.

Mosely grins. "Call me whatever you like."

"Great. So, Mose, you seem like a busy man. I'd love a tour, but I don't want to put you out."

"It's no trouble. Meet me here at one; I'll have finished my rounds by then. We can chat."

"I'll be here."

Mulder grabs an apple from the cafeteria and wanders outside, intent on exploring the surrounding property. He finds Scully in the greenhouses at the front of the complex, apparently working with one of the gardeners; they make eye contact from a distance, but he doesn't approach her. He waves, and she gives him a nod before turning back to her task.

He takes a right out of the main entrance and heads to the back of the complex to look around, but there's little to be seen. Scrub brush off to the side, a broken-down path that leads to the retired main entrance, and the occasional tumbleweed.

 _Nothing. Nothing, and more nothing_ , he thinks, searching the desert landscape.

There's a garage in the back, a run-down shed that holds three trucks, where two men and a woman appear to be working. Three nearly identical kids— _triplets?_ Mulder wonders—dash in and out around the legs of one of the men, who remains seemingly oblivious to their antics, occasionally stopping to shoo them away without much conviction. Mulder watches from a distance, partly hidden by the corner of the building, and listens to their conversation.

"Hey, get outta there! Simon! I _told_ you, for the last time—"

"Let them play, George," the woman says, sniffing, wiping her hands on a blackened rag. "They're fine."

"Not a good place for 'em," the man mutters. "Not safe out here, with all these tools."

"The only tool I see here is you, George."

The third man is quiet, busy with his work. Mulder recognizes him as Jay, one of the men who'd met them at the gate. He's working on one of the trucks, which is cranked up on a lift.

"Transmission's nearly gone on this one," he says eventually. "Damn. Let Mosely know we need to do a salvage run soon if we want to keep her working."

The three children appear from behind the shed, giggling and shoving each other; same haircuts, same eyes, the only difference between them their clothes.

"We just went out last week," Tammie mutters, then turns to the kids. "Cassie! Simon! Get back here…"

Mulder watches the children scatter, and the woman throws her hands up in the air.

"Yeah, it's too soon," Jay agrees. "We have the other truck, though."

"Patrol'll have a field day with that," George mutters. "This is the only one with A/C."

"They can roll down the damned windows," Jay says.

Tammie frowns at the broken vehicle. "If George didn't crank on that poor thing so hard, we wouldn't have this problem."

"Screw you!" George barks. "Not my fault the stupid thing's got a picky clutch."

"Sure," Tammie leers. "Doesn't have anything to do with your big-ass lead feet, huh?"

"Cut it out, you two," Jay snaps, and the others go silent. "We'll plan another run in a couple weeks, the guys on patrol will have to use what we got 'till then. End of discussion."

Mulder lingers for a few more minutes, hoping to hear more about the salvage run, but their talk turns to other topics—expired sports teams, the food quality at the compound—normal, easy things, and eventually Mulder turns away.

As promised, he meets Mosely outside the cafeteria after lunch.

"Hey, Mose," he says in greeting.

"Hello, Mr. Hale. I hope your morning was productive."

"Oh, sure," Mulder says, glancing around. "I hear one of your trucks needs a new transmission."

Mosely gives him a curious look. "Yes…yes, Jay said something about that. How did you—"

"I have a bit of experience with auto repair," Mulder jumps in. "In case you have a gap to fill."

This appears to catch Mosely's attention. "Oh? So what does a former writer know about the inner workings of a '96 Chevrolet, Mr. Hale?"

"Gotta make a living somehow. Truth is, I've done a number of odd jobs over the years. I'm retired now."

"You're either younger than you look, or that's a euphemism for 'unemployed'," the man returns kindly.

"Ah, you got me," Mulder grins, putting his hands up in mock surrender. "Trust fund baby."

"Hence the unsuccessful writing career," Mosely prompts as they head outside, squinting against the sun. "A lack of motivation to better oneself."

"No, I'm pretty sure it's because I'm a terrible writer," Mulder replies drily. "Not that it matters now."

"Truer words have never been spoken. Well, did you have any questions for me? I get the impression you're curious about this place. Perhaps even suspicious."

Mulder pauses a fraction of a second, caught off guard. "Curious yes, and I suppose suspicion comes with the territory."

"That it does. But I think you'll find things are different here," he says. They're inside the building now, passing the cafeteria, which is relatively quiet. Mulder can hear idle chatter from a few stragglers, the faint clang of pots and pans as the staff prepares what he assumes will be their evening meal. Mosely glances into the room as if looking for someone, then continues onward.

"How are you different?"

"Well, for one, we're survivors," the man says, his low, even tenor is soothing, melodious. "We're bonded together by virtue of our immunity. There's a certain level of respect at the compound; an inherent knowledge that we're in this together because we have no choice. For years, our kind were the predators; now we're the prey. Such prey travel in packs, it's only natural for us to reform, regroup, and protect the flock."

The man's eyes glitter, an imperceptible trick of the light, or perhaps something else; they've stopped at the elevator, and Mulder feels a sudden and unexplainable sense of dread, like a lamb being led to slaughter.

"Of course, no one is forced to stay," he continues, tipping his chin downward. "But so far, everyone has chosen to. That says something about us, I think."

"So you're saying no one has left?"

"That's what I'm saying," he sighs easily as they step into the elevator. Mulder hesitates at the threshold, but curiosity gets the better of him. He steps in, the doors slide shut, but Mosely doesn't press the button. Mulder's unease grows, along with an acute sense of claustrophobia.

"And…what if someone wanted to leave?" Mulder asks carefully, eyeing the door, looking toward the ceiling.

"They would be free to go," Mosely says, with the same measured ease. "It's never happened, but we have no reason to keep someone who doesn't want to contribute to the new society we're building. We've been given a second chance at grace. A chance to take what we had and rebuild it, make it better, stronger, and avoid our past mistakes."

"So you think God—"

The man's careful exterior crumbles slightly as he snorts, a derisive laugh. "Hardly, Mr. Hale. I didn't take you for a man of faith."

"I'm not," he replies. "You said—"

"You misunderstand. It's not God who's given us this chance. Fate, destiny, whatever you want to call it—these things don't matter. Only the work matters here, Mr. Hale. The work is what will keep us together, keep us moving forward."

Mulder nods, unconvinced. "So, where are we going, anyway?"

Mosely steps forward and pushes a button, and Mulder breathes a silent sigh of relief.

"To the lower levels; I noticed your, ah, interest this morning. I thought I'd show you the inner workings…prove we have nothing to hide."

Mulder shifts from one foot to the other, uneasy at being so effortlessly read, but the tour itself is as uneventful as Mulder's own explorations this morning. He notices that Mosely saves the locked room for last.

"And in here," the man says, swiping the card and flicking on the light switch, "we have waste processing."

Sure enough, the room holds a number of large tanks; they walk amongst them, listening to the hum and gurgle of the equipment, the vast pipes running over their heads, the faint smell of sulfur wrinkling Mulder's nose. Mosely tips his head toward the problematic tank, the panel on the wall nearby marked WEST in capital letters.

"Everything gets fed into these tanks, filtered, and flushed out through an underground network of pipes. It all lands in a man-made swamp about six miles away. Occasionally the filtration system gets clogged, and that's why I called engineering this morning. I was showing Bruce which tank to check."

The room is dim even with the lights on, but there's no mistaking it for anything sinister; Mulder can't help but feel disappointed, although uncovering this particular secret does nothing to satisfy his unease.

They've reached the other side of the room; Mosely turns around, but Mulder notices something; another door, this one also has a keypad lock on it.

"A closet," Mosely says without hesitation, eerily in sync with Mulder's thoughts. "Storage for maintenance."

"Ah," Mulder says, although he's intrigued. _Why would they lock a storage closet in an already locked room?_

"Coming?" Mosely is already standing at the threshold, his voice taking on a metallic twang as it echoes between the tanks.

Mulder throws a last glance at the keypad. "Yeah, sure."

"I hope I've put some of your fears to rest, George. I want everyone to be comfortable here."

"I can see that," Mulder murmurs.

"Oh, I hope I'll see you at the assembly tonight?"

"Assembly?"

"Yes—I run a weekly community gathering; announcements and such. I believe your friends will be there—the lady and her son? I haven't had the pleasure of meeting them yet, though I'm eager to."

Mulder meets the other man's eyes, feels his throat tighten.

 _He knows, somehow. He knows._

The thought isn't rational—what has the man done?—but it's persistent, and this tour has done nothing to put his instincts at ease.

"Great," Mulder says. "I guess I'll be there."

"Wonderful. Why don't we go see about finding you something to do in the garage?"

Mulder nods, and they step into the elevator.


	12. Chapter 12

JUNE 20, 2015

7:45 P.M.

THE COMPOUND

NEW MEXICO

The end wasn't supposed to come this way.

They had planned for it for years, of course, but he should have known the federal government couldn't get their heads out of their asses long enough for something even as important as the beginning of the new world order to go according to plan.

 _But there's always a new plan_ , Robert Mosely thinks, frowning at something off in the distance.

It's night; the air is sharp, whipping about his face, bringing with it sand and dust and dirt from the rocks that litter the New Mexico desert. Behind him, the gray-black box of the compound looms like a patch, joining the desert horizon with the matte dusk sky.

Like Noah gathering the animals, he's drawn them here and granted them safety and shelter, one by one, often hunting them down in the midst of suburban ruins. The last of them are settled inside, learning about life after death.

His kind are easy to find…but these new ones are a mystery.

It's obvious they've traveled together, covering for each other. Mosely can sense their hesitancy. There's something about the boy, in particular, that makes Mosely think they're hiding something.

 _Something…familiar…_

He stares into the night, as if studying the horizon line will bring the missing connection to bear, but no such luck.

The man and woman aren't like the rest; he knew this right away, knew it even before they arrived, when Jay casually suggested checking out the campers at the far end of the compound's border.

He would know if they were survivors, like him, and this lingering fact gnaws at him. How can they be immune?

 _Unless…_

With a sigh, he returns to the gray structure. Only two men are on patrol tonight; there's no need for an army out here amongst the rocks, the great red expanse of magnetic material that keeps the monsters at bay.

He's all too familiar with the monsters; he's spent years studying them, studying the virus that births them, a secret kept in darkness that was not yet ready to see the light.

 _But the light lets itself in_ , Mosely thinks, a thin smile on his lips. _It always does._

None of them understood what was happening. They'd been raised as human, though there was very little human about them, save for their appearance and their resistance to the virus that had consumed the rest.

But even that couldn't save them, not entirely. Of anything left on this earth, they could resist, but they couldn't fight.

There was no point in living in the middle of the food chain, but the will to survive was a strong burden to bear, and they had been created with the drive just as any other flesh and blood human being. Their drive to live might have been stronger. He's considered this at times, peering at his own genetic map.

The halls are quiet. Mosely's walk is calm, unhurried, but thoughts of the newcomers won't let him go.

He finds himself in the room he's come to consider his office; simple, with a desk, a chair, a salvaged floor lamp that he flicks on. He pulls open a drawer, thumbs through the files within, and plucks one, laying it flat on the desk. Clipped to the top is a photo of a young boy, about three or four, smiling shyly into the camera.

Mosely frowns, letting his fingers trace the shape of the boy's ears, the nose…the eyes give him pause.

 _It's the eyes_ , he thinks, sitting back. _He has the same eyes._

He was supposed to be dead, Mosely reasons. Something about an abduction, a kidnapping, an accident in the woods.

 _Have I found you?_ he wonders, putting the file away for future comparison. A soft smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. A blood test will reveal the boy's true identity.

With an abrupt shift in energy, he leaves his desk in a flurry, locking the door behind him.

Tonight, he'll greet the new ones.

The group gathers in the cafeteria after dinner. It's the first time Scully has seen everyone in one place, and the sight of so many human bodies is overwhelming.

Several children run laps around the perimeter in an impromptu game of tag. A long table at the back holds a few bottles of wine and beer, just enough to get everyone talking a little louder, laughing a little harder.

She stands apart from the crowd, keeping an eye out for Isaac. She eventually spots him with two slightly younger kids, and when she finally catches his eye, he does the most surprising thing and breaks out in a grin.

"Hey," a low voice says, coming up beside her.

Mulder puts his hand lightly on her shoulder and she turns to face him, trying not to look too pleased, even though the sight of a familiar face is a relief.

"You OK?"

"Yes," she breathes. "Yes, I'm fine. I—it's a lot to take in," she murmurs, casting a look at the crowd. A blonde-headed young boy yells something as he races past, barely missing Scully's knees.

"Lively crowd," Mulder says, leaning casually against the frame of the cafeteria entrance.

"It is," she agrees. "Where have you been?" Her voice is low, too soft to be heard over the din by anyone else but Mulder.

"I took a tour," he says drily. "The BMOC—that's Big Man on Compound—found me snooping around in the basement."

She keeps her expression neutral, but her voice wavers slightly. "Did you find something?"

"No," he says, chewing on his lip. "No, I didn't."

"That's good?" It comes out as a question rather than a statement.

He meets her eyes and shrugs. "How's the kid?" he asks, changing the subject.

Scully nods toward the opposite corner of the room, where Isaac is still in conversation with another boy. "He seems to be holding his own."

"He can't hear things," Mulder murmurs.

Scully nods, her expression pained for a moment, then she recovers. "And he's like a whole new person."

They're interrupted by the sound of voices at the far end of the room. Mosely has appeared out of nowhere, and now he stands, addressing the group in a calm voice. The man's easy, fluid manners carries throughout his audience as everyone goes silent.

"Welcome all. Tonight is a very special assembly. I hope you're enjoying the spirits," he says, gesturing to the back of the room. "A rare treat, but we've earned them. Tonight marks our third month of survival."

A vibrant cheer goes up, temporarily deafening in the crowded room. Mulder remains impassive, but Scully can't help but be intrigued.

 _The man is charismatic_ , she thinks. _Charming, even. The kind of person who smiles as he's passing you the last cup of poisoned Kool-Aid._

The thought is chilling and perhaps not unfounded, as the audience listens in rapt attention.

Despite Mulder's reluctance and her own intuitive misgivings, she's beginning to think this could be the right place. They can work here, they can _live_ here. The people are resourceful and intelligent, if today's work tells her anything. What they've accomplished in such a short time is impressive.

For the first time in months, she feels hopeful for a future beyond a life of fear.

Scully's attention is brought back to the assembly and she feels her face color as she realizes everyone is looking at them.

"And it's a particularly special night; as many of you probably know, we're among new friends. I'd like to formally welcome them tonight. Treat them as you would each of your fellows. They are survivors...survivors like us."

Another cheer, and Scully feels Mulder reach for her, squeeze her wrist lightly. She smiles in reflex, a tight, uncomfortable grimace, waiting what feels like a painfully long time for the applause to die down.

Mosely continues with a range of announcements, with updates on their rations and two upcoming supply runs.

"This is the part where I disappear," Mulder murmurs at her ear. "Keep your eyes open, Doc."

Scully snorts and nods slightly, then searches the crowd for Isaac again. His friends appear to have wandered off, and he's hanging out against the wall, alone, watching the proceedings. She walks the perimeter, the drone of speech in the background as she sidles up to him.

"Enjoying yourself?"

He shrugs in answer, not taking his eyes off Mosely. He's distant, a curious, focused expression on his face.

It's not late, but by the time the meeting ends, Scully feels her eyes itching for sleep. They arrived at the compound yesterday, but it feels like she's been awake for days. Before she can turn to leave the cafeteria, the group descends on her and Isaac, shaking hands and exchanging introductions. At some point, Isaac presses his hand firmly into hers, anchoring them both against the oncoming tide of strangers.

They walk back to their rooms together.

"It's weird," he murmurs. "I keep wondering…" he hesitates, brow knit in thought.

"What is it?"

"I don't know what they're thinking," he says, with a careful shrug. "I was different for so long, I guess I thought…I thought it would never be like this. And now it is. It was always part of me, but…I don't miss it. I thought I'd miss it."

She swallows hard, risks slipping her arm around his shoulder as they walk, surprised when he leans into her instead of away.


	13. Chapter 13

JUNE 21, 2015

7:10 A.M.

Isaac dresses in the new clothes he found on his bed; an oversized button-down shirt over a white t-shirt, and faded jeans that would have fit him two months ago but today are a hair too short. He frowns, yanking at the cuffs until they cover his socks, and wonders if he should check in with the Doc before leaving.

He doesn't have to go looking; Scully is waiting for him in the hallway. "Ready for your first day?" she asks.

Isaac rolls his eyes, but there's a knot in his stomach the size of his fist. "It's not a big deal."

Scully's lips quirk. "Maybe not…but good luck, anyway. I'll be outside at the greenhouse if you need me."

He slings his backpack over his shoulder and shuffles to the cafeteria for breakfast, even though he doesn't think he'll be able to eat. Two of the boys he'd met yesterday, Cam and Jack, are waiting for him. He knows little about them except their ages; both are thirteen, a couple years younger than him. They're friendly, but naive. They don't understand what happened outside the compound, save for what they've overheard, and those stories had become grossly exaggerated over time; nothing like what Isaac had seen.

He eats in silence while the other boys talk, and watches the rest of the compound's residents filter in. His toast is dry, sticky on his tongue.

"I still think Batman would kick Superman's ass."

"No way! Superman can fly. Batman just climbs stuff."

"Yeah, but Batman has a cooler car."

"So what? It's just a stupid car. Superman could pick it up one-handed."

Isaac tunes them out, absently stirring a packet of imitation syrup into his cream of wheat. He takes a bite, then puts the spoon down and gathers his things.

"Hey, Isaac! Where you going?"

Jack is looking at him expectantly, and Isaac forces a smile. "Don't want to be late. I know where to go."

He walks to the classroom at a plod, hesitating at the door. The teacher, a stout man with a close-cropped beard, introduces himself with a handshake.

"Hey, Isaac, right? Welcome back."

He doesn't know what to say, so he nods.

"You can call me Steven. We like to keep things informal around here," the man says, smiling. "Welcome to class," he continues, turning toward a bookshelf. "You're fifteen, right? Tenth grade?"

Isaac nods again, clearing his throat. "Almost sixteen."

"Great. Here are your books—they're a bit outdated, but Robert and I can fill in the gaps. Your group is over there; back right."

He makes his way to the table, avoiding the other students' curious stares. Only one doesn't seem interested; a girl, a little older than him, who sits at the next table, scowling into her book.

As the lesson begins, Isaac is relieved to realize he remembers more than he thought. Mr. Cartwright— _Steven_ , he corrects himself—opens a biology textbook and asks Isaac's section to follow along.

"Last week, we studied parasites; small organisms that require a host to reproduce and survive. This week, we'll learn about parasites that work on a micro scale. Viruses are parasites at the cellular level; they usurp healthy cells and use them to reproduce."

 _Reproduce._

The word conjures images of moving flesh, extended, swollen middles. Isaac shrinks back in his seat a little, thinking back to New England, to the sight of a man's blown-open corpse laying prone on a bed.

"I'm sure you're all familiar with common viruses, like influenza or chicken pox," Steven continues. "In many cases, it's not the virus that makes you feel sick; it's the body's immune response that makes it so uncomfortable. Some viruses multiply so rapidly that the powerful immune response actually kills their victim before it can kill the virus."

Isaac feels his meager breakfast turning over in his stomach. Cam nudges his elbow and gives him a strange look; Isaac realizes his hands are trembling on the table, so he stuffs them under his legs.

"Yes, Charlene?" Steven asks at a break in the discussion. Isaac looks over, where the quiet, dark-eyed girl has raised her hand. She's looking right at him, but doesn't seem to see him at all. For a moment, he forgets his discomfort.

"Is it true that it was a virus that killed everyone?"

The class grows quiet, waiting for the answer. Steven looks down, shuffling his notes, clears his throat. "Well, that's a good question. That seems to have been the consensus, although we don't know for—"

"I thought it was the monsters," another girl interrupts.

Steven blanches. Even Robert, the younger group's teacher, has stopped and is listening from the other side of the room.

"There's no such thing as monsters," one of the youngest kids says; his voice wavers a little on the last word, as if he doesn't quite believe what he's saying.

"It was both," Isaac speaks up, surprising himself. The words sound rough in his mouth.

"How do you know?" Charlene says, staring at him.

Isaac swallows hard, feels his face grow hot as the class' eyes fall on him. "I…I saw one of the things. While I was out there."

"Yeah, right. If you'd seen one you'd be dead," Cam says.

"No need for that," Steven says. "Ah…let's move on to the two primary components, which are—"

Isaac frowns into his textbook, unable to focus on the words on the page. He can feel the girl's eyes on his back long after the lesson ends.

He skips lunch, begging off Cam and Jack's company, and ventures outside instead. The sun feels good on his face, and for the first time in weeks, his skin doesn't prickle at the thought of being in the open.

There's a well-worn path running in the shade alongside the compound's north end, and he follows it, taking in the scenery. He turns the corner to find a row of makeshift greenhouses, scrap metal and fiberglass baking in the desert sun. The Doc is outside one of these, talking with someone. Isaac ducks his head and hurries along.

Beyond the greenhouses is the garage, where two men and an older woman are working on the pickup truck that had brought Isaac and his parents to the compound the day before yesterday. No one notices him, and he feels his steps grow lighter, less hurried, as he passes.

He reaches the back side of the compound, where the desert opens up, rocky outcroppings in the distance. Blue sky meets red desert rock and he stands for a moment, stunned by the glare of the sun outside the compound's plentiful dark shade.

He takes a few steps, meandering, wondering if he should head back, before he sees her. The girl from his class sits in the shade to his left, her back pressed against the concrete structure. Before he can stop himself, he's walking toward her.

"Hey…you're Charlene, right?"

She wrinkles her nose, visibly annoyed at the interruption. "And you're the new kid," she mutters, not looking up from her book.

"Yeah. I'm Isaac." He sticks out his hand.

She looks up at him but doesn't offer her hand in return. "Well, Isaac," she says, drawing out his name with a leer. "Shouldn't you be back at school kissing the teacher's ass?"

He withdraws his hand, feeling foolish, but covers his disappointment scowl. "Shouldn't you be?"

"You going to make me?" she sniffs, returning her attention to her book with a quick shake of her head. Her fingers are blunt and calloused, her eyes intense, her hair cropped into a short, messy pixie that makes him realize his own hair probably needs a trim.

He shrugs. "There's not much to do here."

"You just don't know where to look."

"Oh?"

Her dark eyes glint, and she snaps the book closed, tucking it into the back of her shorts. Something in the way she smiles makes him nervous, makes him think she's looking for a fight. "Come with me. I'll show you."

"Where?"

"Nowhere," she says, arching an eyebrow. "You don't get to ask. You're the new kid."

He hesitates.

"What are you, a wimp?" she says.

He rolls his eyes. "No. I just don't take every stupid bet that comes my way."

She smiles a little, smug, "Fine, if you want to stay here and be bored, whatever. Your loss."

She turns and walks away from the compound into the seemingly empty landscape, hands in her pockets, as if she does this every day. She's heading toward nothing he can see, save for the edge of the land, the chain link fence a shimmering line of silver in the distance. He looks around, but the only people in sight are working, not paying attention to a couple of kids. He should be back at school, sitting in a stuffy room and listening to a history lecture.

Unfortunately, she's far more intriguing than the thought of a bunch of old people, all of whom are presumed dead now.

 _Damnit._

He finds his feet moving forward without his consent. "Hey, Charlene…wait up!" he calls, and when she turns, it's as if she expected him to follow.

She rolls her eyes. "Don't call me that."

"That's your name, isn't it?" he asks, falling into step beside her.

"Yeah."

"Oookay. What do I call you then?"

"Don't call me anything, new kid," she says, narrowing her eyes at some point in the distance. He looks ahead but doesn't see anything, save for the fence that's growing slowly closer as they walk. She looks over her shoulder, but the landscape behind them is clear, barren; they're behind the main part of the compound.

"So do you do this a lot? Walk out here?"

"Do you always ask this many questions?"

"Only when I don't get answers," he says, trying to keep his voice even. She's impossible to read; he wishes he could hear her thoughts.

They're close to the fence now, and she stops, glancing from side to side.

"What are you looking for?"

"Patrols."

He bites his lip. "What happens if we get caught out here, anyway?"

"Nothin'," she says. "Besides, catching us _here_ isn't the problem," she mutters.

They're following the fence now, walking along the perimeter to the right. She appears to be looking for something, ducking her head occasionally to run her fingers along the chains.

"Still bored," he calls, goading her, but she doesn't listen.

"Here we go," she says, stopping, sending one last glance over her shoulder before she reaches down into the dirt and pulls.

The fence comes up easily, and Isaac suddenly realizes what she means to do.

"So," she says, eyes glinting. "Are you coming or not?"

"Ladies first."

She ducks under, through the opening, and he follows, the chain link scraping his back as he crawls through. They're outside the compound's safety net. He stands, wiping red dust and dirt from his jeans. There's a fine sheen of sweat on the back of his neck, but he doesn't know if it's from the heat, or the excitement of being outside.

She pulls something from her pocket, holding it in her hands; Isaac looks closer, realizes it's a compass. She frowns at it intently as they walk further from the borders of the compound. He watches the needle spin, and spin, and spin, seemingly unable to find a resting point.

"What do you need that for?" he asks finally.

"Nothin'," she says, but doesn't take her eyes off the needle. As they walk, she checks it occasionally. He catches glimpses of it over her shoulder, watches as it begins to slow, to tremble, and finally settle on north.

The desert seems endless, devoid of landmarks, but she seems to know where she's going. The thought doesn't make him feel better. He's considering giving up and turning back when she stops at a large, white rock that stands out from the rest.

"This way."

She turns the compass and points them west. Isaac's throat hurts, and suddenly he realizes how foolish they are to go wandering in the middle of the day in a desert; he doesn't have any water.

As if she'd read his mind, she stops, pulling a bottle from her pack. "Drink up." He does, feeling a bit less parched, but his head throbs. After five more minutes of walking, a dark line grows on the horizon, slowly taking shape; a series of rocks jutting out against a backdrop he can't discern from the desert around it. Isaac squints, but that only makes his head ache more.

She seems to be making right for it, though. Eventually they reach a large crest, a wall of rock. "We're here."

He stops and turns, seeing nothing but the wall and more desert in every direction. "What's 'here?'" he asks, hoping his voice sounds dry and not terrified.

She doesn't answer, just begins climbing. It's easily seven feet to the top, but jagged, with handholds and footholds all the way up.

"You coming?"

"Uh…sure," he shrugs.

The climb is easy. She watches with a curious half-smile, as if she expects him to fall, so he concentrates especially hard on a flawless ascent.

"Not bad, new kid," she says when he makes it, and he shrugs again, something tugging at the back of his consciousness like a child at his pant leg, but he pushes it away, too focused on keeping his cool. His head still aches, and he reaches for the water bottle again.

He turns to face her, and finds her staring out at the landscape before them; a valley of reds and rich greens far below, a canyon oasis. They're standing at the far edge, where the desert begins to give way to rocky forest. The sight makes Isaac dizzy, breathless, and he's glad when she sits down so he has an excuse to do the same.

"We're a long ways out," he says.

"Far enough," she agrees.

He takes a seat. "So what is it about this place?"

She shrugs. _I just like it._

He blinks, squints. "What did you say?"

"I didn't say anything," she says, giving him an odd look.

"No, you said 'I just like it.' I heard…"

 _You heard her._

He closes his mouth with an audible snap. "Nothing," he whispers weakly.

But her eyes are wide. "You…"

"We should go back," he says, feeling his heart begin to pound, the throbbing at his temples picking up a similar angry rhythm. It's not right, because if he can hear her…

 _I can hear Them, too. And They can hear me._

"Don't wig out on me, new kid," she's looking at him, staring. "Did you—"

"We can't stay here," he says, looking back and forth, scanning the horizon, which was just a moment ago a thing of beauty, now an endless threat of places to hide.

"I do this all the time," she snaps. "And you still haven't told me how—"

"I'm not staying," he says through gritted teeth. "They'll find m—"

A vise grips his temples, sudden and relentless, the humming static comes flooding back in a painful rush. He stumbles to his hands and knees, the rough surface of the rock scraping his palms.

 _No, no no no they're here, they found us_

"Kid? Hey, get up! What—"

He hears her in the distance, but the thoughts are too powerful. Tears leak from his eyes as the searing hot band tightens and tightens again. He rolls to his side, clutching his head and keening.

"Get up, what the hell is wrong with…oh…ohhh," her voice goes weak, he can hear the whistle of her lungs in her next breath.

He gasps, spittle flying from his parched lips. The headache backs off just a little, just enough for him to raise his head to see the thing that's waiting for them on the horizon. It's a speck, a dark ink spot against the lush green forest, but it's moving, rippling through the branches at an unnatural speed.

"Isaac you've gotta get up," she says in a rush, already heading for the side of the rock, searching for footholds. "We have to get back…"

 _It found us._

He finds his strength, crawls to the edge of the rock and climbs over. A wave of pain hits him mid-climb and he feels his hands involuntarily let go, feels himself falling backward.

"Oh!"

It's only three feet, but it knocks the wind from his lungs, black, murky lines creeping across his vision. Energy tingles at his palms, but it's weak; whatever forces have subdued the telepathy have also taken his strength.

Charlene is on him, pulling at him. "For fuck's sake, Isaac, GET UP we need to GO."

He does, feeling like he's walking through quicksand, but he gets to his feet at her painful insistence. She's holding his hand, pulling him along.

"This way!"

He grunts, losing her hand as she wrenches it from him, but by some miracle he stays on his feet. The world doubles and solidifies in front of him when the static in his head grows louder, angrier, more insistent. He catches rushes of emotion with each steady throb, hatred and fear and hunger, a deep, roaring hunger that makes his blood roil.

He can feel it behind them, sense its shuffling footsteps and creaking breath. He can feel how it smells them, it hears every sound they make, and it's faster than either of them could ever hope to be. Any minute he expects to feel the sharp pull of claws and teeth, like shadows ripping the skin from his body.

 _Run run run don't look back don't look_

Charlene is ahead of him, her legs are shorter but she's faster, all her faculties about her. He has the dull sensation of burning in his chest, realizes he's holding his breath, lets it out in a painful, coarse bark. The static seems to have reached a crescendo.

 _Run goddamnit_

"Kid!" she rasps, still ahead of him. "Come on!"

He can't reply, can't find it within him to form words, just closes his eyes and lets his feet hit the ground, step after step, until he feels the lessening, feels something like rage flash at the back of his mind, then pull away.

He's panting when he finally catches up to her; she's pulled an inhaler from her pocket, is sucking on it in long, airy gasps.

"Is it gone?" she asks in a wispy breath, slowing her pace, casting long, wide-eyed glances over her shoulder.

"Think so," he gasps, wincing at the last vestiges of the headache.

He swallows hard. "Let me see that compass," he demands.

"Why?"

"Just…let me see it," he sighs. She narrows her eyes, but digs in her pocket and brings up the compass.

Spinning. The needle is restless again, whirling and whirling, first one way, then the other in a confused, never-ending cycle.

"Does it always do this?" he asks.

She nods slowly, looking at him as if something has opened within her, as though the fear bound them together in a way they can't yet understand.

"Only when you're at the compound, right?" he whispers, his footsteps a slow, aching plod. He can see the fence in the distance, and he realizes just how sweaty and hot and tired he is, feels like he could lay down in the sand and fall asleep.

"Yeah," she says. "The rocks…they're like, magnets or something."

She's closed off again, distant, as they close the distance to the fence. This time, someone is waiting for them.

"Shit," she whispers under her breath. "Who is that?"

"I know who it is," Isaac says, groaning inwardly. "It's Mr. Hale."

"Who?" she whispers.

"He came in with Sc…I mean, my mom and me."

Mulder is standing at the fence, watching the two kids approach with his hands on his hips. His eyes lock on Isaac's and for a moment, there's the flickr of a smile on his father's face before he ducks his chin to hide it.

"Hey," Mulder calls. "How's the grass over there?"

Charlene tosses Isaac a look. They're standing at the fence now, faces criss-crossed with wire, and Mulder cocks his head. "Greener, you think? Because it looks the same to me."

Isaac rolls his eyes. "Hi, uh, Mr. Hale," he coughs, and Mulder scowls, pacing the edge.

"Want to show me how you got over this thing? Guessing you didn't climb it," he says, looking upward, to where the gate towers above them, barbed wire lining the top.

Charlene wrinkles her nose, then nods toward the section of the fence that's come up. "Here."

She finds the opening, pulls it up, and the two of them slip through.

"Ahh," he says, nodding toward Charlene. "Who's your friend, Isaac?"

She answers for both of them. "I'm Charlie."

"Uh huh. Want to tell me what you two were doing outside the fence?"

She holds his eye, jaw set. "I wanted to show Isaac around."

"You're bleeding," Mulder says, noting Isaac's scraped palms, a gash on his head where he'd grazed it against a sharp rock.

"We, uh…we were chased," Isaac says.

"Don't!" Charlie hisses. "It was nothing," she says, turning back to Mulder.

"I can see that," he returns mildly, gesturing to Isaac's forehead.

Her nostrils flare, but she doesn't argue, just folds her arms across her chest.

Mulder looks back and forth between them before giving a sigh. "I'm not going to say anything. But I want you to promise you'll stick around. No more exploring, OK? Both of you," he says, narrowing his gaze on Isaac, who flinches and nods.

"Promise," they say in unison.

"Good. Get back to school. Isaac, can I talk to you?"

"Umm…can I have a sec?" he asks, and Mulder shrugs.

Charlie has already begun to walk back to the compound.

"Hey, Charlie, wait up."

She looks nervous now, all her former bravado leeched from getting caught. "What?"

"I, uh…I'm not bored anymore."

She snorts, but there's the hint of a smile on her lips. "Stay out of trouble, new kid."

He grins back. "You, too."

Mulder is watching with the same worried expression when he turns back, and his broad smile falters.

"So what happened?" Mulder asks once Charlie is out of earshot.

"I…we went out too far."

"…and?"

"Nothing," he lies.

"Isaac," Mulder says, wiping his brow. "C'mon."

"Fine," Isaac sighs. "We got out there, and I could hear…things. I got a headache…it…it made it hard to see."

Mulder bites his lip, thinking. "And They could hear you."

Isaac nods, recalling with cold certainty the way the creature honed in on him, locked them in its mental grip. "They found us. But…I couldn't defend myself. I think…I think it knew it, too."

"You could have been killed. Both of you," Mulder says.

"I won't do it again."

There's a long pause before Mulder finally shakes his head. "Go see the Doc, OK? Hopefully you won't need stitches for that," he murmurs, gesturing to the gash on his forehead, to match his already healing scratch. Blood stings at the corner of his eye and he swipes at it with his sleeve. "And I meant it," he continues, gripping Isaac's shoulder, pulling him into an awkward half hug. "Don't go out there. Not without a plan, at least."

Isaac nods, chagrined, and turns, searching for Charlie. _Maybe I can catch up—_

Mulder looks back at the chain-link fence, lost in thought. "Some risks are worth taking, kid. Some aren't. You, of anyone, should know the difference."


	14. Chapter 14

THE COMPOUND

NEW MEXICO

Time passes, and they settle into a familiar routine. In the last four weeks, Scully has learned how to prune a prickly pear cactus without getting stung, how far apart to plant the hothouse tomatoes to avoid overcrowding, and how to grow fresh lettuce from the kitchen's leftover cores. She'd been surprised to find she liked gardening; it reminded her of healing in a way, and she hadn't realized how much she missed being a doctor until she was charged with the care of something living.

Mulder visits, hands streaked with grease from his job at the garage, and borrows her shower to wash up while they talk, low voices masked by the running water. He remains skeptical, but Scully finds herself putting suspicion aside as each day passes without incident. Isaac's influence on her outlook can't be denied, as she watches him emerge from his shell, unburdened in a way she's never known.

Today marks four weeks since they arrived, and Scully returns from the greenhouse with an aching back and dirty hands, but a sense of satisfaction from a day's work done. A spark of excitement flutters in her stomach as she washes her hands, scrubbing at her stained cuticles.

Two weeks ago, she'd approached Peter with the idea that had been brewing ever since their excursion to the CDC lab in Kentucky.

"I know it sounds crazy, but I've seen this before," she'd said, wiping a trickle of sweat from her brow. "In the form of bees, genetically modified to spread a virus."

For his part, the greenhouse manager—a retired geneticist—hadn't been shocked. "Tell me more."

"I wasn't exactly involved in the project…I suppose you could say I was, tangentially, but…that was a long time ago.

"But something as inconspicuous as pollen could be an effective mechanism for transporting the magnetite. Wildlife can distribute it over a wide range; hundreds of miles, in some cases."

The man scratched his chin, leaving a smear of damp earth along his jaw. "So you want to try hybridizing the pollen with magnetite?"

She nods. "I think it's worth a try."

Peter shrugs, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I never considered…we've been so focused on the community…making sure we'd have enough food."

"With your background in genetics, and my previous experience with…certain phenomena, we may be able to come up with a way to help ourselves out of this. It may take months, even years…but I think we owe it to ourselves to try," Scully says.

He nods slowly. "Actually, that gives me an idea."

"Oh?"

"Well, as you know, this area is rich with deposits. As far as we can tell, it's part of the soil, mixed in, a combination of all the different elements.

"We've been using regular potting soil from nearby stores to start our crops," he says, gesturing to the plants around them. "The native soil obviously isn't good for much. But if we were to enrich the potting soil with the magnetite-rich soil, combining them, whatever we planted there would pull nutrients—including magnetite—from the soil. The seeds would be infused with magnetite. The question becomes what concentration is necessary to disarm the…the creatures," he says, frowning. "And we'd need something that could survive in a range of climates, that can propagate quickly."

"That sounds like…weeds," Scully says, smiling slightly at the thought of a deadly field of wildflowers.

Peter nods. "Exactly. Fast-growing, hardy, pervasive," he says, finger to his chin. "I'll be honest, it's been a long time since I've looked at anything other than potential food sources…but I'll give it some thought."

He was true to his word. The next day, Scully had barely set foot in the warm, humid belly of the greenhouse before he jumped up, waving a thick, dusty book with _Botany_ printed across the cover in block letters.

"Taraxacum officinale," he'd said, grinning. "More commonly known as the dandelion. They're asexual, so we don't have to wait for pollinators to do the heavy lifting, and according to this, they'll survive almost anywhere."

She'd grinned, unable to help herself, as he continued.

"It occurred to me, we might be making the problem more complicated than it has to be, so I went back to basics," he said, gesturing to the textbook. "These things grow everywhere. I'll send Danny and Jo to gather what they can from the surrounding area and we'll test them."

Measuring the level of inherited magnetite proved more difficult than collecting their first samples, but after a week of trial and error, they derived a method of analyzing the flowers by testing them against soil samples from around the compound.

"Magnetite is magnetic. Therefore it stands to reason that it should react to other non-magnetic materials, like copper or aluminum, in a similar fashion," Scully explained, peering through a microscope. They'd commandeered one of the empty hospital rooms to act as a laboratory, setting up what limited equipment they could salvage from the third floor. "In high enough concentrations, when material from the infused plants is combined with a copper solution, we should see an electrical reaction. We can measure the electromagnetic current generated by that response to gauge the amount of magnetite in the sample."

"I should have paid more attention in physics," Peter said.

"Lucky for you, I have that covered," Scully murmurs. "The question is, how much is enough? If we had a sample, something we could…"

She'd trailed off, thinking of the tissue samples she'd collected on the Vineyard. She'd also collected blood…including Isaac's.

Then she'd had an idea.

"Dr. Scully?" Peter asked, looking at her curiously.

"I think I have…something…but I don't know for sure."

He'd nodded. "Take your time. It's going to be at least another week before the first ones to go to seed."

That night, she'd gone to the hospital after hours, where Mary was working at the makeshift nurse's station in the hall.

"Dr. Scully! Did you forget something?"

"Hi, Mary. No…actually, I have an odd request. Do you still have the blood samples that were drawn when Isaac and I came in?"

The woman bit her lip. "I'd have to check. We usually toss them after the first week. I'm afraid they won't be much good for a CBC if that's what you're after."

"No, no, it's not that. Where do you keep them?"

Mary had directed them to the storage room, a closet with a whirring refrigerator, where the samples sat alone on a shelf.

"You're in luck," Mary said. "Haven't trashed them yet."

"Do you mind if I borrow these?"

"You can keep them," the woman said, wrinkling her nose, "but I can't imagine why you'd want to."

Scully smiled, the vials cold against her palm. "It's just an experiment."

She'd retreated to her lab, closing the door for privacy. From Isaac's blood, she could develop a solution with which to test the magnetite-infused pollen. It was obvious his physiology reacted to the magnetite in a less dramatic way, but that should ensure whatever concentration they eventually developed was strong enough.

Peter hadn't asked where she'd gotten the sample, and Scully hadn't offered. She'd been prepared to tell him about her encounter with the creatures by showing him the scar on her shoulder, and explaining how one of the thing's claws chipped off in the wound. It was a stretch, but Scully suspected it would be easier to believe than her son sharing DNA with their new alien neighbors.

With the foundation in place, all that was left was to wait for their research subjects to grow.

Now she reflects on the work with a faint sense of hope. The first batch, the control group, had gone to seed, and it was clear the native plants contained a minuscule amount of the magnetic substance. If they could increase the concentration…

The bed is soft; it's tempting to lay down, to process the day's overstimulation and rest her eyes, but there's a fine film of desert dust across her features, and her stomach growls.

 _Shower, dinner, sleep_ , she thinks, with as much clarity, when there's a knock at the door.

"Room service," Mulder's voice says from the other side.

"I don't recall ordering anything," she says as the door creaks open, her partner leaning in the frame.

"Been a while since I've had to ask you to invite me in…"

She tips her head to the side in unspoken acceptance.

"They're keeping you busy," he says, closing the door behind them.

"They do," she admits, pulling her sweat-laden t-shirt over her head with a soft groan. "The irrigator is on the fritz, so Peter has us hauling water from the compound until engineering can fix the recirculation system."

"Ouch."

She smiles, rolling her neck. "My shoulders had something to say about it. But Peter's just put in some new hybrids, they're fragile, weeks of work will be lost if they don't make it."

"Hybrids?" Mulder repeats, as if lost in thought. He's taken a seat on the bed, and now he rubs at his face with his hands.

"Cacti spliced with fruits to create desert-hardy variations. Eventually they may contribute to a more diverse food source," she says. "It's smart. If they plan to survive, they'll need reliable access to more food."

He looks at her curiously. "You say that as though we're not part of this."

She frowns, folding her jeans, attempting to brush off the dust. "Did I? I didn't mean to. Sometimes it's hard to believe that we've found a place here."

He nods, but looks vaguely uncomfortable. "How's the, uh, other research coming?"

"We're planting our second crop tomorrow; we have a baseline for the amount of magnetite in the plants. If we can increase that, over time we'll reduce our dependence on the soil. In a few years, we could conceivably reclaim portions of the land around us," she says. "Peter seems to think we can pull it off."

"Mmm. That's good," he says, but he doesn't look at her.

"So…how was your day, dear?" she teases, when it's clear his mind is somewhere else.

Mulder blinks. "They're gearing up for a salvage run. One of the trucks is broken. I think I'm going to offer to go."

This gets her attention. "How far?"

"About sixty miles. But my motives aren't entirely genuine. I get the impression they're looking for more than truck parts."

She frowns. "How so?"

"They're going pretty far out of their way to find a common transmission we could get from the nearest town."

"Have they said anything to make you think there's something else going on?"

He pauses, shifting. "Nothing concrete. It's just a feeling," he admits.

She relaxes a fraction. "It's only been a few months. It's natural we'd be uneasy…"

He raises an eyebrow. "I don't think it's that simple, Scully. Something's going on here; I can feel it, we just haven't been here long enough to see the…the seedy underbelly of this place yet."

"Maybe you're right, but if we're always looking for the dark side, we're always going to find it. At some point, we have to let our guard down."

"No, we don't," he says, and the sharpness in his tone surprises her. "Just because we've lived through it doesn't make these people any less trustworthy. Mosely makes me nervous. The guy doesn't seem right."

"What do you want to do, Mulder? Arrest him?"

He smirks. "I left my handcuffs in Virginia."

She doesn't take the bait. "So what are you suggesting?"

"I'm not saying we leave, if that's what you're thinking. Not yet, anyway."

"That's not—" she begins, but stops herself. She purses her lips, suddenly exhausted, any excitement she might have felt diminished. She decides to change the subject. "I'm going to take a shower before dinner; we should go separately."

He nods, but doesn't move from the bed, frowning at a point on the floor.

"I want you to be right this time, you know," he murmurs, fingers strumming at his knee. He rubs at his face. "I want to stop running just as much as you."

"We can," she says softly. "We can choose, Mulder."

He smiles, despite her wishful thinking. "That's why I like you, Scully. You never stop hoping for the best."


	15. Chapter 15

JULY 15, 2015

"Hey, new kid."

Isaac is sitting at his table in class, waiting for the afternoon lessons to begin, when Charlie leans in, grinning. Her voice is soft against his ear.

"Meet me outside after school."

Before he can ask what's up, Cam and Jack descend on the table, arguing about something, and Charlie returns to her usual seat, catching his eye over the distance and smirking.

He's distracted for the rest of the day, listening to Steven drone on about quadratic equations. He's supposed to be focused on his textbook, doing the problems on a sheet of notebook paper, but he can't stop looking over at Charlie. Eventually she catches him in the act and frowns, giving a quick shake of her head before returning to her own book.

Weeks have passed, but Isaac still doesn't know how to read her, doesn't know where they stand after their shared adventure. She's a closed book with a dark cover who shows up when he least expects it. He's still the "new kid", but he's surprised to find he doesn't mind the nickname.

When their teacher finally releases them, Isaac fumbles to put away his notepad and pen in his bag, saying a hasty goodbye to Cam and Jack. He wants to catch up to Charlie, but she's faster, having left the room before he can finish packing up his meager supplies.

He heads for the main exit, heart thumping. The door opens to hot sand and earth, and he shivers a little; the chill at his back and the warmth on his face.

She pounces on him before he's registered the desert heat, the dry air shriveling his throat before he can take his first deep breath. Her hand is in his and she's pulling him around the side of the compound, back pressed to the building's hot gray brick wall.

"What the—"

"Hi," she grins.

"What are we doing out here?" He's already beginning to sweat and they've barely moved.

"C'mon," she says, not answering. "I wanted to show you something."

"Nuh uh," he says, rooting his feet to the ground, even as she's trying to tug him along; her fingers are slick over his wrist. "That didn't work out last time."

"Don't you want to get out of the heat?" she says, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yeah, but we can go inside and—"

"Then come _on_ ," she groans. "I promise, we're not going outside the fence. I'm not stupid," she adds, with just enough inflection to imply guilt.

She takes his hand again, and this time he follows. They're walking toward the fence again, but then she veers left, toward a crop of rocks and weeds.

"Over here," she says, bending down to move one of the rocks. He squints. From this angle, it looks like she's sinking into the earth, disappearing beneath the stones, but upon closer inspection, he realizes she's climbing downward.

"Whoa," he whispers, seeing the entrance. It's barely noticeable from afar; with the surrounding rocks, it's well hidden. There's barely enough room for him to squeeze through the cave's narrow opening, but when he does, he's greeted with blissful cold, like slipping into a pool of water.

The walls are carved from rough stone and dirt, dust and cobwebs pulling at Isaac's cheeks, and he sputters. Charlie has her inhaler in hand and takes a quick puff before settling down on what looks like an old bench; scrap wood piled at the far end.

He crouches down against the cool earth, kneeling, relishing the reprieve from the sun. "What is this?"

"There's caves all over here," she says, leaning back, watching him. "It looks like they meant to build out here, extend the compound, maybe, or hide something."

"Do they know about it?" he asks, tipping his head backward.

She shrugs. "I've never seen anyone else."

"It's a secret fort," Isaac says, grinning despite himself, and she rolls her eyes.

"You're such a dork."

There's a pause; she picks up a stick, begins drawing something in the dust on the floor, writing her name in looping script, then brushing it away with the back of her hand.

"So…what are we doing here?" he asks.

She takes a deep breath, poking at something on the board next to her. "I just wanted to say…thanks. For not ratting us out…before."

He masks his pride with a shrug. "You should thank George," he says.

"Do you think he'll say anything?" He can barely make out her features in the dark, but her nervousness is a fine, sticky thread, as fine as the spiderwebs they'd just crawled through.

"Yeah," Isaac says. "We…I mean, my, uh, mom and I were around him a lot after the infection hit. He's cool. He won't say anything."

"Your mom works at the greenhouse, right?"

"Yeah," Isaac says.

"Where's your dad?"

The question catches him off guard.

"He, uhh…he died," Isaac says. "When I was little, though, not from the infection."

"Oh. My parents died from the virus," she says, stone-faced, reaching down to pick up a broken piece of wood from the dusty floor. "Guess that makes me an orphan."

She's grown still, silent. He coughs, sending a spray of dust and sand up from the floor. "We're all orphans now, aren't we?"

"You're not," she says, looking directly at him, watching him like a bug under a microscope.

He swallows hard, unsure how to continue. "Y'know…I was adopted," he blurts out before he can stop himself.

She doesn't look interested, but sniffs, offering a polite, "Yeah?"

"My, uh, my mom adopted me when I was a baby. I didn't know—I mean, I don't know my real parents," he lies.

"Why'd they give you up in the first place?"

He swallows; he's often asked himself the same question. "I don't know."

"Maybe you can be an honorary orphan, then," she says halfheartedly, smirking at the ground.

Quiet and dark meet, and the two shuffle awkwardly; youth has no patience for peace, and Isaac breaks the silence. "What were your parents like? Your real ones, I mean."

She shrugs. "Like most parents, I guess…overprotective, they annoyed the crap out of me sometimes, but I stayed out of trouble. They…the virus…it was quick. I didn't have a chance to…and I stayed at the house, the whole time. It was like I was someone else. I was so afraid I was going to get sick, too."

She looks up at him, sharp and haunted, and he sucks in a breath, knowing her loss even though he can't confess it. The hurt sneaks up when he least expects it; suddenly his dead mother's voice will bubble up in his head, the same tone and pitch ringing in his ear, as though she were standing beside him. Or he'll have a memory that doesn't exist, his father painting the front porch a dusty lemon color, smears of the paint on his jeans. He knows this isn't his because their porch was always blue, the house doesn't look right, and his father looks too young.

He remembers Alice, too, though he has fewer of those memories to choose from. The sheen of the sun on her hair, the way she'd punch him on the arm when he'd tell a bad joke. His throat tightens as he watches Charlie watching him, waiting, feeling vaguely guilty for reasons he can't express.

Suddenly all the fun and excitement of sneaking out to the cave is lost.

"Yeah," Isaac says, at a loss for what to say. She seems to have withdrawn into a protective cocoon; he doesn't know whether he should push or retreat, so he does nothing.

"We should get back," she says finally, standing and dusting off the back of her jeans. He does the same, crouching to get up to his feet, when something slips out of his front pocket, landing with a soft metallic _thunk_ on the dirt floor.

Her brow furrows. "What's that?"

"Nothing," he lies weakly, reaching down to pick it up, but she's faster. Charlie grabs the hard drive they'd swiped from the CDC research facility.

"Gimme that," he growls, snatching it out of her grasp. "It's private."

She's unfazed. "I showed you my secret, now you show me yours," she teases, a darkness edging her words.

"It's nothing," he huffs. "Let's go."

She sniffs, visibly stung. "Fine. Whatever."

They trudge back to the compound, and by the time they've reached the doors, he pulls at her arm. "Look, I'm sorry. This is…I really can't say anything. It's not that I—"

"Not that you what?" she challenges.

He takes a deep breath. "It's…I would tell you if I could. I mean that."

She folds her arms, still icy. "What's stopping you?"

"It's not a 'what', it's a 'who'. My mom," he mutters, glancing around, nervous to be having this conversation in the open. "She'd kill me if…if whatever's on this disc got out."

The implication is subtle, but she latches onto his hesitation. "So you don't even know what's on it?"

"I didn't say that," he says, but his voice sounds thin.

"Don't you want to find out?"

"I…I don't—"

But he does. And he's more than a little annoyed at being the appointed guardian for something that may be nothing more than a paperweight.

"I do," he sighs. "I want to know, but I—"

"How would your mom know if you took just a quick peek, anyway? It's not like she's a computer genius, right? You said she's a doctor."

"I—I don't think she would," he admits, watching himself stumble and fall over the words with a certain amount of wonder, as she paints him into a narrow corner of his own making.

"So what's stopping you?"

The hospital wing is quiet, as usual; the perfect place for two errant students to go unnoticed.

"If anyone asks, say we're here for a research project," Charlie says. Isaac nods, but there's a new queasy feeling in his stomach.

Suddenly one of the doctors—Carol, the one who drew his blood the first day—turns the corner, startling when she sees them. "Aren't you kids supposed to be in school?"

"Mr. Steven sent us," Charlie says, her voice higher and sweeter than usual. "We're researching viruses. He said there's a library down here?"

The older woman pauses, and for a moment Isaac is certain she'll see through the act and send them upstairs, but she simply sighs.

"There are a bunch of medical journals in that room over there," she gestures across the hall. "Just don't make a mess, and bring them back when you're done."

They wait until she's ducked into one of the patient rooms before walking quickly down the hall. There's a computer in an exam room at the far end, and they sneak in, closing the door behind them. There's no lock, but Charlie rams a chair up against the doorknob.

"We'll have some warning if she comes looking for us," she explains.

"You're too good at this," Isaac mutters.

She grins. "Living here, you get good at sneaking around. Now, let's see that disc."

"Nuh uh. I know how to do this," Isaac insists, dismantling the hospital computer's frame, twisting the bolts loose with his fingers. "I think we can plug this in…yeah, here. Connectors are the same."

Charlie leans over his shoulder, focused on their shared vandalism. Her breath at his ear is a warm distraction, but he doesn't tell her to back off.

Instead, he turns on the computer with the new hard drive attached. He's not sure which is worse; the thought that it won't work, and he'll look foolish, or the thought that it will work, and the drive holds the kind of information he thinks it does.

 _Time to find out_ , he thinks. The computer boots up, the familiar wind chime sound from the speakers startles both kids, and they jump.

"Shit!" he hisses, head snapping around to check the door, listening for movement. He looks at Charlie, wide-eyed, to find the same expression mirrored back at him as she scrambles to turn off the speakers. She covers her mouth but he can see the trace of a smile behind it, and he tries to stifle his own nervous giggling.

But it's no use. Suddenly they're both laughing—desperate, silent guffaws that leave tears streaming down their cheeks. Charlie leans on him for support, covering her mouth with both hands as she tries not to make a sound, both of them snorting and snuffling. Isaac's ribs ache from the effort it takes to hold back, and for several long moments he can't catch his breath.

When they've finally calmed down, when he dares to take his hands off his mouth, Charlie's face is red, her eyes shining. "Hurts the best," she whispers, grinning as she hiccups.

"Yeah," he agrees, returning her smile. The moment lingers longer than it should before Isaac turns back to the computer with an awkward cough.

"It's, uh, protected," he explains, clicking through the folders to the data file they'd opened for only scant minutes back in Kentucky. "It asked for a passphrase before. We didn't get further than that."

Charlie narrows her eyes when the dialog box pops up on the screen.

"Try 'password'."

Isaac refrains from rolling his eyes, but just barely. "That's stupid, no one would—"

"Just try it," she insists, nudging him lightly. "Government people aren't very smart, that's what my mom always said."

There's a hint of truth to it, so he types it in and hits _Enter_.

"No access," he mutters under his breath. "Any more brilliant ideas?"

She gives him a look, unfazed at his sarcasm. "What's this data for, anyway? Maybe that has something to do with it."

Isaac blinks. "It's the CDC…maybe…"

He tries again, but "virus" doesn't make the cut, either.

"Damnit," he groans. "They'll probably lock us out after a certain number of tries."

"Then don't try anything until you're sure."

He scoffs, but something bubbles to the surface of his consciousness, popping, the remains of the thought floating like oil on water. His fingers move to the keys without thinking, almost as if his hands knew what to do before his mind could follow.

He types: U-L-T-I-M-A-M, hesitating only a moment before pressing _Enter_ , wincing with the anticipation of it, the sense of finality. He hears Charlie whispering over his shoulder, "What the…?"

The drive begins to hum in its metal shell, and rows of text flood the screen.

"Hah!" he cries, jumping up slightly.

"Shh!" Charlie says, but she's smiling, too.

The success is bittersweet. He begins to read, heart sinking, as he realizes the passphrase was only the first word in a much longer story.

"How did you know—"

"I—I just guessed," he bluffs, feeling an uneasy heat creep up the back of his neck.

"What is it?"

He clears his throat, tries to keep his voice neutral, strong. "Transmission records, it looks like…they had…they had a private system, I think, looks like they were able to send messages after the infection started…"

He clicks on one such message, the title of which reads simply, _MK, March 12, 2015._

"'Maryland gone,'" Isaac reads aloud, squinting at the screen, "'The Center has been breached. Enact U3428.' What's U3428?"

"Code for something? What's that one say?" Charlie asks, pointing to another message.

 _DR, March 15, 2015. Boston Memorial down, St. Athens pending._

"Scroll back up," Charlie says, frowning, and Isaac does, records skittering past.

 _MK, March 1, 2015. E422468A n.i. 3w, dispose._

The list goes on, letters and dates, followed by brief, cryptic messages that mean little except to the people who wrote them.

"This is what they were trying to protect?" Isaac finally says, sitting back against the worn office chair. "There's nothing here."

Charlie reaches past him, tapping the arrow key to advance, but he's too disappointed in their anti-climactic discovery to continue.

But what had he expected to find? That answer is less clear each day they stay at the compound, the further he gets from their life on the island, and everything that came before.

 _Maybe it doesn't matter_ , he thinks, sinking lower in the chair, watching through slitted eyes as the screen changes, Charlie's impatient sighs at his ear.

She draws back suddenly, wary.

"Isaac…where did you get this?"

"Nowhere," he sniffs. "Why?"

"Look."

He rolls his eyes, but leans forward to see what she's found; a list, but unlike the cryptic dated messages, this is a list of names. Familiar ones; it's the same list Mulder obtained when they were researching the project themselves, although that was months ago. That data is swimming somewhere in the Atlantic.

"Or part of it," Isaac whispers to himself; this version is much longer.

"Part of what?" Charlie asks, but her voice has gone paper thin and rough as sandpaper.

He shakes his head. "I don't…I don't know that it matters now," he says, but this confirms the choice of passphrase. _The CDC was involved with the project, and the infection, and the two are connected…somehow…_

He clicks on a name, and more information appears, a photograph, a location, their specialty. A pediatrician in Kansas, her face open and friendly. He wonders how many kids she treated, how many of them were special, like him.

 _Test subjects._

His hand shakes slightly as he clicks out of the record and opens another—a cellular biologist from New York, followed by a military scientist based out of Mississippi.

He clicks through until there's a gasp from over his shoulder. He notes the sudden cool air at his side, wonders how it is he misses her when she's only been there a few seconds, and turns to find Charlie pale and drawn, fingers touching her lips as if they were a strange and new thing.

"What is it?"

"Him," she whispers, a low moan in the back of her throat. "That's…that's him. Where did you get this? What is it?"

He turns back to the screen, the face familiar, but it takes him a moment to place it. "Who…"

She glares at him. "Mosely."

His throat tightens, and for a moment he fights for air. Charlie spins his chair around to face her.

"Isaac, you need to tell me what's happening. Now."

He cranes his neck to study the photo. No doubt, it's the compound's leader; younger, but not by much. His eyes are cold, hard blue stones, his hair still close-cropped and white. He wears a white coat, like a doctor, with a caduceus pin on the lapel.

"Tell me!" Charlie hisses, all traces of the lighthearted moment they'd shared not minutes earlier gone.

"Alright, alright. I'll tell you…just…hold on."

She huffs an impatient breath as he tries to find the words beneath his shock.

"I told you before, I was adopted," he begins, feeling self-conscious, uncertain. "I was given up as a baby. My mom and dad…like I said, he died when I was little. My mom—my adoptive mom—raised me.

"I was sick, as a kid. That's what they told me, what they told my mom. They said I needed help, that my heart was bad. I spent most of my life in the hospital. I was tested," he says, expression growing dark.

The rage surprises him, burning the back of his throat like acid as he continues.

"I knew I was different. I—you wouldn't believe it," he shifts uncomfortably. "I didn't know it, didn't find out until a couple years ago that the tests were part of a bigger plan. They wanted…they wanted what made me different."

She huffs. "Isaac, just tell me where you got the damned hard drive."

"I will," he insists. "But it won't make any sense until you've heard the rest."

She crosses her arms but doesn't say more, settling back.

"They called it Project Ultimam. It was done in secret, to kids like me…maybe adults, too, I dunno. Doctors, scientists, all over the place, were working on it, I guess. They did tests on us, all of us. They wanted…they wanted to see how we worked. To make more of us."

"Why? What's so special about you," she snaps, and he has to bite his tongue.

"I…I hear things," he says lamely.

She snorts. "What, like a mind reader?"

He doesn't answer, feeling his face grow pink.

His lack of an answer is enough; her eyes grow wider, brown orbs of darkness against ivory skin. "You're serious. You…the other day…you could hear me—"

"I can't…I can't do it here," he interrupts. "It doesn't work, with the rocks."

Her eyes narrow, and he begins to feel vaguely like a mouse or a rat, running a maze. He frowns at his feet while she takes this in.

"So you're…"

"I don't know what I am," he says. "But I can't tell you what you're thinking right now, if that makes you feel any better."

She doesn't give any indication that it does. "And you were part of this…thing?"

"Yeah. When I was twelve, I was attacked. Someone…something came after me. My mom was killed," he continues, feeling a cold chill at the memory of his hands, the burst of light…

"My real parents," he continues. "They found me. Told me I was adopted, that they were the reason I was so different. They used to be FBI, they found out about the project, and the tests they did on me, and…"

"And you believed them?"

"I didn't want to," he says defensively. "But I guess I do. The three of us were attacked.

"I lived with them. I chose to," he adds, as if she might question his judgment. "I thought they would help me find the people who'd tested me. But then…this thing happened," he lowers his voice. "We had to run.

"We found this at a CDC facility outside Lexington," he says, gesturing to the screen behind him. "We thought there might be a connection to the virus, an explanation," he says. "Dr. Scully is studying it. She wants to find out if we can make a cure."

"That's stupid," Charlie says, foot tapping nervously on the rung of her chair. "What's the point, if most people are already dead?"

"Not a cure for the virus. A cure for the rest of us…for the planet. A way to defeat Them. They're already working on it," he continues. "The Doc says they're researching ways to spread magnetite so that eventually, maybe, we won't have to live like this."

Charlie stares at him uncertainly, arms folded across herself. "How do you know you can trust her, Isaac? How do you know they're not part of this project, too?"

"How do you know you can trust Mosely?"

She presses her lips together until the pink bow of her mouth turns pale. "He rescued me. He saved me from…from being in that house. If I hadn't left, my parents…they would have…" she ducks her chin, he can see the line of her nose, nostrils flaring, but she doesn't continue.

"Well…they rescued me," he says. "Just like Mosely saved you, and brought you here. But this means he was part of the project."

"But I've never seen him do anything, I mean, he barely talks to the kids here. He can't be testing us."

Isaac's eyebrows knit together, turning back to the screen, looking at the man's features; there's no doubt about a possible mistake.

"Maybe he's good now," Charlie says tentatively. "Maybe he stopped…whatever it was he was doing."

"Maybe," Isaac sighs.

"We can't tell anyone about this," she says, struggling to get the words out.

Isaac blinks. "Charlie, we have to."

"No. If you say something, if you tell your mom, she's going to know we were looking at the hard drive. You'll get in trouble."

"If this guy is who we think he is, we're _all_ in trouble."

There's a pause, the nervous patter of his fingers on his own wrist like a metronome.

"Did he really do all that? To you?"

Her expression is distant, sad, as if some long-held fear has been confirmed.

"Maybe. I don't know if it was him," Isaac admits, suddenly frustrated at his memory. When he was young, all the doctors looked the same; long white coats and thick smiles. Sometimes they gave him a sticker or a lollipop after the treatments, although he rarely had the stomach for the sweets, and the stickers were almost insulting.

 _Great job!_ they'd read, as if he'd done anything more than lay on the table—sometimes conscious, sometimes not. As if he'd had any control over what happened.

He wracks his brain for memories of close-cropped hair, kindly eyes, a serene smile. Mosely would have been younger, wouldn't he? But no one comes to mind, and he shakes his head, as if he could shake his childhood off like a coat of wet snow.

"Please," Charlie says, and the desperation in her tone makes Isaac's head ache. "Please don't say anything. Not yet," she says finally. "I don't want to go back out there."

"I know," he whispers. "Neither do I."


	16. Chapter 16

JULY 17, 2015

4:02 A.M.

It's 4 a.m. when Mulder finally gives in to the ache in his knee and gets up. The bed groans, echoing his discomfort as he pauses to massage around the joint with a grimace, giving the muscles in his leg time to relax enough for him to stand.

He'll get dressed and see if Scully is awake. They've made a point of avoiding regular contact, speaking only for short periods, glancing conversations that take place with silent acknowledgement over meals or the occasional niceties in passing. Today is the supply run to find a transmission for the broken truck, and it seems wrong to leave without seeing her first.

Life has fallen into a dangerously soothing, predictable pattern. They wake, they eat, they do their jobs, they eat, they sleep. He thinks, shrugging on a gray sweatshirt and running his fingers through his hair, how easy it would be to let this become the rest of their lives.

The routine isn't the problem so much as it is the feeling this place gives him; maybe it's the run-down facilities, or the strange serenity amongst what should be a group of shell-shocked survivors. Like they've been here all along, waiting for this to happen.

It takes three tries before she answers the door, squinting into the hallway's artificial daylight. "Mulder?"

"Hey," he whispers, slipping past her and into the safety of her room as quickly as possible. "Sorry to wake you."

"S'everything OK?"

He nods, bites his lip. "Too keyed up to sleep."

She makes a soft, sleepy sound of understanding and crawls back into bed, patting the outside, indicating for him to join her. He does, laying on his side until they're nose to nose.

"When do you leave?"

"Couple hours," he yawns. "They want to get an early start. It's a long drive."

"And no one else volunteered?"

The truth is, there were plenty of others who could go in his place; people who were stronger, with more mechanical skill. Scully knows this. So does he.

"We'll be out and back before dinner," he says, in lieu of an answer. She frowns, a soft pout of her lips, but doesn't push the issue. She's been his partner long enough to know when to let him go.

He wishes he could convey how this place makes him feel; locked up, restless, like an endangered animal in the zoo, a manufactured habitat with cameras in every corner, monitored from the other side of the glass.

The sense that someone has them right where they want them.

Still half asleep, she whispers, "It's dangerous out there, Mulder."

He doesn't have to ask what she means. Her fingers fret with the hem of her pillowcase, and he places his hands, warm and steady, on top of hers to still them. She's his rock, but whether because of the early hour or the circumstances, her nervousness is palpable, disconcerting.

"It's just as dangerous to become complacent."

Scully sighs and closes her eyes, murmuring, "Be careful."

His lips graze her forehead in a silent promise.

He waits until he hears the squeak of footsteps passing outside, the early risers heading for their morning showers, and sneaks away before anyone can see him. The cafeteria is quiet, almost somber. He forces himself to eat a few bites of his toast, a few forkfuls of eggs, washing it down with bitter coffee that does nothing to settle his stomach.

Dawn is creeping in as George, Tammie, and Jay load up one of the working trucks with supplies at the garage.

"Ready for this, Hale?" George asks, grinning widely, as if nominated the keeper of some great secret. He tosses a toolbag into the bed with a crash.

"What are the odds?" First George had asked upon being introduced with an exuberant, meaty handshake, and Mulder had only shrugged and smiled, thinking, _Statistically, I'd take them to Vegas_. First George was not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he knew his way around an engine, which was more than Mulder, who knew just enough to be dangerous or an annoyance, depending on the circumstances.

"Guess there's a first time for everything," Mulder mutters in return, tossing his pack over the side of the truck.

Tammie is less imposing, but her demeanor more than makes up for her lack of stature. "Let's get a move on, boys. I didn't get my coffee this morning."

"If you can call that sludge coffee," Jay mutters.

"Better than nothin'," Tammie retorts, her face tight as she climbs into the cab. She drives with Jay up front; the two Georges sit in the bed of the pickup.

"Here," First George says. "You'll want this."

He hands Mulder a shotgun, pulled from the lockbox at the back of the bed.

"You know how to shoot, right?"

"Sure," Mulder says, _although I'd prefer something smaller_ , he thinks. It's been years since he's fired anything other than a pistol. Even living in the country, he'd never taken up hunting; a former fugitive, it felt too personal to stalk and take the life of a creature who was just trying to go about his day. Too close for comfort.

"You're going to want to save your shots," George says, cocking open his shotgun and extracting one of the bullets, holding it up. "These babies are only good for one thing."

Mulder squints; it looks like a regular shell, but the man twists the top off, dumping the contents into his palm, and a reddish gray slug falls out.

"Magnetite shot?"

"We made the slugs," George explains, nodding. "Only thing that slows 'em down. Regular bullets don't work."

Dust billows from the back as they drive, reaching the compound borders, stopping to pull aside and then re-lock the gates. Then they're speeding down a back road, more of a path ground into the dirt by the same wheels, and Mulder fights off nausea from the jouncing and jostling.

The others have done dozens of runs like this before, but everyone is focused, nonetheless. Idle chatter gives way to watchful quiet. As they draw further and further away from the compound, they're more likely to encounter the creatures.

"They're weak, though," George says casually; he tosses a handful of trail mix into his mouth, chewing as he talks. "We see 'em wandering out here sometimes."

"You get close?"

The man grins, as if it's a novelty, like visiting Canada to see a caribou. "Yeah, plenty close. Close enough to see the whites of their eyes, if they were white and not black."

The man cackles as if he's made a joke.

"Anyway, should be 'bout half an hour up the road," George says, yelling over the roar and rattle of the old truck, and Mulder grimaces in the man's general direction, before turning his attention back to the rolling, empty landscape.

The outskirts of a small town appear along the horizon, and Mulder shifts, reflexively tightening his grip on the shotgun. George seems to be enjoying his nervousness when they crest a hill overlooking what used to be a shopping center; a strip mall and a car dealership—Benny's Bounty, Your Wheels for Our Deals—with a row of used vehicles, among them several dusty trucks.

They pull up alongside the nearest Chevy, in good condition given its age.

Tammie hops out; George mutters something about going to look for supplies in the nearby store, but Jay cuts him off.

"This first," he says. "We might need your help."

George doesn't look happy, but he doesn't argue, just scowls and leans on the side of their target, watching as Tammie wiggles underneath.

"Think this will work," she says. "Get the jack."

Mulder grabs the toolkit and the jack from the back of the truck, sliding it down to her.

"Hale, you a good shot?"

"Decent," Mulder says, remembering the island, showing Isaac how to hold the gun, watching as the bullet hit its mark.

"Then I want you on watch."

It's the kind way to say he's otherwise useless, but Mulder picks up the shotgun anyway. Already the temperatures have climbed into the nineties, and it's a beautiful, clear day; the sun beating down without a hint of cloud cover. Even his sunglasses seem to have given up the ghost; the day goes from dazzling to blinding when he takes the glasses off to wipe them with the corner of his t-shirt.

The truck is off the ground, hood up, and Tammie works on disconnecting the new transmission while Jay supervises. "Easy does it, girl," he advises, and Mulder hears a disgruntled snort.

"'Girl', my ass," she says, strain in her voice. "Gimme that wrench, Hale. Jay, make yourself useful and get me a bucket for the fluid."

Mulder does as he's told. Under different circumstances, he'd admire the woman; with some polish, she would have made a good FBI agent.

 _Like Scully_ , he thinks, before he feels Tammie kick his shin. "The other one, Hale. The socket."

"Right," he says, blinking at the array of metal in the toolbox. He grabs a different wrench, hoping it's the right one. It must be, because she continues her grunting and swearing, but doesn't throw it back.

"Alright, it's out," she says, sliding out from beneath the metal monster. "Back is killing me; Jay, Hale, you two get—"

Her shoulder hits the jack, releasing it, but the truck is unbalanced; it lands with a groan, kicking up dust. The transmission she'd been working on crashes to the ground, her shoulder underneath it.

"Fuck—"

"Lookout!"

There's a sickening crunch, a screech as Tammie's collarbone snaps under the weight of the vehicle and its newly extracted transmission. Mulder dives, trying to pull up on the side of the truck to lift it and relieve the pressure while the woman writhes, trapped.

George moves for the right, attempting the same, but the two men can't lift it more than an inch.

"C'mon!"

Mulder's hands and shoulders ache from the strain of trying to hold it, all the while Tammie's screams have become pleading whimpers. Jay moves to Mulder's side.

 _Shit, it's no use_ , Mulder thinks, as Jay's hands come up next to his. The truck is massive, too big for two men, let alone—

It's moving. Jay seems to have tipped the balance, and Mulder feels the weight lifting almost of its own accord. When George steps back, Jay is solely holding up the truck; Mulder's hands have pulled away, more in shock than out of necessity.

 _What the hell—_

He doesn't have time to think about it. Jay is barking in his ear, "Hale, get her outta there! Can't hold this thing forever."

He does, reaching down, rolling the heavy machinery to the side to release her, swearing as he jostles Tammie's broken shoulder. Her collarbone is turning a sickly shade of mottled red and purple.

He winces and staggers, carrying the woman to the bed of the truck, setting her down as gently as he can with help from George. Jay remains stone-faced, frowning as though he's dirtied his best suit.

"Let's get the transmission out. She can ride in the back with Hale."

Mulder blinks, wondering if he's misheard. "You're not serious. She needs help—"

"And we need the transmission, it'll only take a minute. She'll be fine."

Tammie groans in response, crying out as she moves to reach up and touch her broken shoulder. There's red spittle on her lips, and her face is ashen, but she grits her teeth, murmuring, "I'm fine. Get the tranny."

Mulder looks back and forth between Jay and George, but both men are moving back toward the truck, Jay ordering George to finish wresting out the equipment.

"Hale, we need your help over here."

Mulder swallows. "Coming," he says, his voice a rasp from his dry, dusty throat as he casts one last glance at Tammie's moaning figure.

"Faster we do this, the faster we get back," Jay says evenly.

Mulder thinks again of the truck, the way Jay hadn't even flinched. Had he already pulled his hands away when Jay stepped in? He's almost certain George had, but…maybe…

The details are fuzzy amidst the commotion, the weight of the truck, the ache in his arms and the adrenaline in his blood.

They wrest the transmission from beneath the second truck and haul it out.

By the time they're done, Tammie has all but passed out in the bed, flinching only a little when they move her off to the side to make room for the new truck parts.

"Gonna need fluid for this thing; there's a tire outlet just up the way, we'll swing by and get what we can," Jay says.

"What?" Mulder wheels around. "She needs help. We can get supplies anywhere."

Jay looks nonplussed. "This is more important than—"

"Than a woman's life?" Mulder asks, incredulous.

"I didn't say that," Jay murmurs. "Hale, I'm telling you, step off. She'll be fine."

"And this is your expert opinion?" Mulder snarls.

Jay smiles an easy grin, as if they were friends chatting over coffee. "It's a quick stop. We'll be in and out," he says. "Why don't you climb in the back and help keep her comfortable. The longer we stand here talkin', the longer it'll take to get back, right?"

There's no menace in his voice, but something about the way he flexes his fist around the gun in his hand makes Mulder uneasy. The other man's point is perfectly clear.

"Fuck," he mutters, kneeling beside Tammie in the truck bed. "Hey," he says, rousing her from a stupor. She blinks up at him slowly, grimaces. "We'll be back soon. You need anything? Water?"

"I'll be fine," she says. "Worst is already past."

The lines around her forehead and mouth say otherwise, and Mulder checks the mirror to see if Jay and George are watching, but they're focused on getting to the tire shop. He lowers his voice. "Tammie…what happened back there—"

"Was a stupid slip," she whispers, cutting him off, hissing as her shoulder jostles against the wheel well as they hit a particularly hard bump. The bruise has spread down her arm in a lazy, purplish river beneath her gray skin. "Tell those jackasses to slow down. Not as bad as before, but it hurts like a sonofabitch."

"Hey guys," Mulder says, rapping on the dividing window between the cab and the back until George slides it open, yelling over the engine. "She's bleeding internally…she needs a doctor."

Jay eyes him in the rearview mirror, annoyed, then returns his attention to the road. "Few more minutes won't make a difference."

Mulder bites his tongue hard enough to draw blood. The shotgun rests across his lap, but he's outnumbered, and they're too far out.

The roads are smoother out here, the parking lot at the tire place is empty. Before Mulder can ask what the plan is, the doors of the truck open.

"Stay with her, Hale."

The two men head for the store, bypassing the useless sliding glass doors; the front window has already been smashed.

A quick glance in the cab reveals Jay has taken the keys, and as the seconds tick by, Mulder considers hot-wiring the truck, turning around, and taking Tammie back to the compound. He can hear the mens' voices in the back of the store, a guffaw, probably George, and barked orders from Jay.

Suddenly the voices turn deeper, louder. Jay is yelling something, and now George is yelling, too. A gunshot rings out, and Mulder ducks, instinctively covering Tammie's body with his own.

"What was that?" she rasps, suddenly wide awake.

"Dunno," he says, heart in his throat, peering over the side of the bed, but there's nothing to see; just the open black hole of the store from which he can still hear Jay, swearing at the top of his lungs.

"Be right back," he says, jumping from the back of the truck, taking the safety off the shotgun. The hair on the back of his neck prickles as he raises the butt of the gun to his shoulder, cautiously stepping forward.

Before he can get far, the two men appear, rugged faces peering out from the darkened store window. "Put down the gun, Hale."

He does, but slowly, noting a deep scratch on George's cheek, another on Jay's upper arm. "What was that?"

Jay shoots George a look. "Nothin'. Dummy over here knocked over one of the displays in the back."

George glowers but doesn't say anything. In his right hand, he carries a bottle of transmission fluid.

"There was a gunshot—"

"Yeah, my trigger finger got itchy," Jay says. "Thought it was one of those things, but it was just this guy and his two left feet."

Mulder frowns, then looks back to the storefront, still dark and silent. His grip tightens on the gun.

"C'mon," Jay interrupts, already climbing back into the truck. "Tammie's hurt, we need to get back."

"Hale!"

"Yeah…alright. Alright."

Mulder watches over Tammie on the ride back. Her upper arm remains a disconcerting purple, but by the time they pull up to the compound's outer perimeter, some color has returned to her cheeks. She's coherent as they arrive back at the main building.

Jay doesn't waste time. "George, help her to the clinic, would ya? Hale and I will finish up with the truck."

He catches Mulder's eye, daring him to suggest otherwise.

"Let's get to work," Mulder says through clenched teeth.

They exchange few words as they install the transmission, Jay taking on the brunt of the work as Mulder assists.

"What did you think of your first run, Hale?" Jay says, sliding out from under the truck.

Mulder snorts. "Are they usually so tedious?"

Jay chuckles, a low, dry sound. "Yeah, it was tense. Don't worry about her, Hale. Tammie's a tough chick."

"Yeah?" Mulder mutters, tipping his head up. "Didn't look that way."

There's a heavy pause as Jay sizes him up, lets out a breath, his mouth turning up at the corner in a smirk that holds no trace of mirth. "Word of advice, Hale. You worry about keeping your nose clean. You're gonna do just fine out here if you can keep your nose clean. Get what I'm saying?"

Mulder swallows hard, feels his hands tighten involuntarily, fingers curling inward. The smirk plays over Jay's face, taunting.

"Thanks," Mulder chokes out finally, relenting. "Good advice."

"Glad we have an understanding," Jay says. "Think I'm good here. Why don't you go wash up?"

Mulder makes his way back to the compound's main building, and only once he's inside do his fists unclench slightly, do the muscles around his neck and shoulders begin to loosen their iron-tight grip.

It's late by the time he gets to his room and sheds his sweaty, sand-sodden clothes. He changes into a fresh t-shirt and jeans and heads to Scully's room, tapping on the door before letting himself in. She's there, studying something at her desk under the glow of a small lamp, a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"Hey, just finishing up; I need to get these numbers back to Peter before they close up for the night."

"Ah. How's the research coming?"

"We've made progress. More than I expected," she says, frowning at something on the page. "Honestly, Mulder, I'm not sure how much help I am. Peter has a better grasp on the science."

"It was your idea," Mulder reminds her.

"It was, but I'm just a doctor," she says.

"You were a scientist first," he replies, a hint of all that came before in the timbre of his voice.

She smiles then, a genuine one that makes her look ten years younger. "The good news is, we should have a viable seed within the next few months, maybe even sooner."

Mulder nods, ducks his head, and Scully turns to look at him for the first time, sees the the furrow in his brow, the stoop of his shoulders.

"How did the run go? I heard there was an accident."

He nods again. "Tammie, she got…a truck fell on her. Crushed her shoulder."

Scully's eyes widen. "Oh, my God…"

"They say she's going to be fine," he says. "I was going to check on her. She's laid up for a few weeks, at least."

A crease lines her brow. "I overheard something about a sprain…one of Peter's friends mentioned it while we were working, so I assumed it wasn't serious."

"A sprain? No. You're thinking of someone else…she was crushed under the truck. She passed out from shock…I mean, I'm not a doctor, but I heard her collarbone snap."

Scully narrows her eyes. "Are you sure?"

"I know what I saw, Scully, I was there. And that wasn't even the weirdest thing," he continues, sitting down on the the bed as the day's strange events finally catch up to him. "We were trying to lift the truck. Me and George…and it just…it wasn't happening. I was going for the jack to start hoisting it back up, but then Jay…he came along and just…he put his hands on the truck, and it moved."

Scully's expression changes from one of worry to skepticism. "Mulder…you're not saying he lifted the truck by himself."

"I think that's exactly what I'm saying."

"Mulder, those things have to weigh at least two tons."

"Maybe," he says. "But I know what I saw. My hands weren't even on the truck, and George had stepped away…it was all Jay, and he did it without breaking a sweat."

"That's not—"

"Possible. That's not possible," he finishes for her, unable to help the mocking tone that's snuck into his voice.

"And I suppose you have an explanation."

"I don't, actually," Mulder sighs, massaging his forehead with his fingers in an attempt to relieve the pressure that's been building since he woke up this morning. "Actually I do, but if I'm right…."

There's pain in her face at the words.

 _She's comfortable here_ , he thinks. _Isaac is happy here._

"What kind of people have superhuman strength, Scully? What kind of person can single-handedly lift up a two-thousand pound truck?"

Her nostrils flare, but he knows she won't give him the satisfaction of an answer.

"Aliens can. Hybrids can," Mulder says, his voice growing more and more insistent with each breath. "They can also heal themselves. Rapidly. I bet if you checked in on Tammie tomorrow, you'll find her collarbone intact."

She sighs, weary, and folds her arms across her chest.

"That's not everything, Scully. After the truck, we went to a store to get fluid for the transmission. I stayed with Tammie in the truck while George and Jay went in. Something happened while they were inside, but Jay wouldn't talk about it."

"What do you think…?"

"I don't know," he frowns. "There was a noise; they said they knocked something over, but from the outside it sounded…it didn't sound like that. Jay fired his gun, said he got spooked, but he looked pretty damn calm to me. And George told me before the run to conserve ammo. I think he intended to fire the gun, but we never saw at what."

"Mulder—"

"And while we're on the subject," he interrupts. "Have you noticed how many triplets there are running around this place? If there were ever an argument for clones—"

She barks a laugh. "Triplets aren't as rare as you'd think."

"Yeah, but three sets of them? In a population of a couple hundred? I want those odds on my next lottery ticket."

She sighs, throwing her hands up. "Maybe there's something about identical triplets that makes them immune. That would explain the admittedly unorthodox ratio—"

"Scully, listen to me. We can't write every single thing off as a coincidence. At some point, we have to look at the most plausible explanation."

"Mulder, you're being—"

"Don't say it, Scully. Don't," he cuts her off. "Not you," he continues in a low voice, suddenly tired and hurting. "I'll take that from anyone but you."

"What, so now that we're here, I don't get a say? My science suddenly doesn't hold up under your scrutiny because the world has gone to hell? You can't just accept what I tell you one minute and throw all the logical explanations away the next. That's not how this works."

"I'm not saying that, Scully."

"What does this mean for us? Where do we go from here? Do we run again? Do we barricade ourselves in for the rest of our lives just to wither and die in the dark? 'As long as we're together, we'll be OK,' but that's not the whole truth," she spits. "Isaac is happy here. He's finally happy, Mulder, have you seen him? He's thriving. He doesn't have nightmares. He's living his life in the tiny circle within which we can afford for him to live. Don't fuck that up just because you can't play well with others."

"Don't you think I want what's best for us, Scully?" His voice is low, wounded. "For him?"

This appears to deflate her, taking some of the wind from her argument as she folds into herself, sitting on the bed beside him. "I think…I think you don't know when to stop looking for trouble."

"Just because you don't want it to be true, doesn't make it go away, Scully. We're outsiders. For all we know, they've known about the infection from the beginning, they may even be responsible. If we're among clones here…if these people are as strong as I saw today…what happens if they turn on us?"

"But they haven't. They've been nothing but kind. If they were truly behind this, why would they agree to this research? I can't do this alone, and…and…Jesus, Mulder, why does it always come down to this?"

"To what?"

"You against the world. We can follow or let you drag us along; the choice is the same."

He withdraws, visibly stung. "Tell me how you really feel, Scully."

She swallows. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. Let's…step back. We can talk about this in the morning."

He smirks in spite of the tension that's roiling between them. "People are going to get the wrong idea."

"Yeah, well. The jig's up," she sighs drily. "Maureen cornered me in the greenhouse today while I was working to ask about our 'extracurricular activities.' She's very happy I've found love as a widow. With a child, no less," she rolls her eyes. "There may have been an 'especially at your age' comment in there somewhere, but I pretended not to hear."

Mulder blinks. "So they know?"

"They think we met and one thing led to another," she says, waving him off.

He thinks for a moment. "Good. Let's keep it that way."

Her eyes shimmer with something akin to disappointment. "I'm…going to go. I need to take some more notes out to the greenhouse before I forget. I'll see you tomorrow?"

He nods, watching as she slips into a fresh shirt, buttoning it up in front of the bathroom mirror, fluffs her hair, frowns at what she sees. She stops at the last moment, turning back to him before opening the door.

"I know your fear, Mulder. But I need you to give it more time."

"I am," he says, but the words come out in a petulant whine.

She nods, pressing her lips together in a taut line. Her silence is all the answer he needs.

Mulder wanders, restless, deciding to head down to the hospital wing to check on Tammie, partly out of concern, and partly out of curiosity. If what Scully said was right—that it was no more than a bad sprain—he should feel relieved.

He doesn't.

"Hello?" Mary pokes her head out of a room at the sound of the elevator. "Oh, I thought I heard someone. Can I help you?"

"Hey, did they bring Tammie down here?"

"Oh yes—she's in there," she says, gesturing to a room down the hall.

The floor is quiet; Tammie's room is easy to find, because it's the only one occupied, lit by a single dim lamp. She appears to be sleeping, but her eyes open when the door creaks.

"Hale?" she blinks, shielding her eyes from the onslaught of light filtering in from the hallway.

"Hey," he says, suddenly awkward. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and approaches her bed. "Yeah, it's me. Wanted to see how you were doing."

"M'fine," she says. "Doc says it's just a sprain."

"Really? Looked pretty bad out there," he says, trying to get a better view of her shoulder. The light is too weak; half her body is in shadow, and the collarbone that should have been crushed under the weight of the truck is covered by the hospital gown. Dark, curling hair falls around her face, her harsh profile softened by the glow of the lamp.

"I'm a fast healer. I'll be back to work day after tomorrow. Would be sooner, but the Doc insisted on a 24-hour watch."

"Nothing broken?" he says, trying to keep his tone conversational.

"Nope. Shoulder hurts like a bitch, though," she grimaces, rubbing at the offending joint. "Do me a favor, would you?"

Mulder nods, shrugs.

"Don't let George drive. He's the reason we lost the transmission on that damn truck in the first place. He can fix 'em, but he can't drive stick for shit."

Mulder smirks, nods. "I'll do that. Hey, Tammie, I wanted to ask you…about the run today…"

"Yeah?"

"You said the truck slipped—"

"Knocked off its jack," she agrees.

"Did you see who lifted it? The truck, I mean."

"Gee, Hale, I was what you might call preoccupied," she mutters.

"Of course," Mulder nods, rubbing at his chin. "Of course, I just…I wasn't much help with this bum knee and all. It's amazing we got the thing up off the ground. You're lucky to be alive."

She sniffs. "What's your point?"

He pauses, wondering if he should continue, but before he can formulate a coherent question, a familiar voice floats down the hall, and Mulder turns toward it instinctively.

"Hale?" Tammie repeats. "That all?"

"Yeah, I'll, uh, see you later. Rest up," he mutters, his concentration interrupted by the pull of the young voice. He steps into the hall, where Isaac and Charlie are back-to, heading for the elevator, whispering in sharp, clipped tones.

"Isaac?"

The boy turns on his heel, visibly surprised. His eyes are wide, troubled…guilty.

"Mul—Mr. Hale," Isaac says, slipping, but Charlie is distracted and doesn't seem to notice. "What are you doing here?"

"Checking in on a friend," he says, gesturing over his shoulder to Tammie's room. "What are you two doing? Staying out of trouble, right?" he says, intending to be kind, but Isaac's face turns a faint shade of pink. Charlie glances at him, then back to Mulder, eyes shifting uncertainly between the two of them.

"School project," she says finally, spitting out the words like seeds.

"Ahh," Mulder says, directing the question at Isaac, who won't meet his eyes. "So what're you working on?"

"We're studying viruses," Charlie says, as if reciting a rehearsed speech. "But we're done now."

"Going up?" Mulder asks as they reach the elevator. He punches the button without waiting for an answer. The ride up is almost icy, and Mulder can't shake the feeling that he's stepped into the middle of a storm.

The doors open a few seconds later to a wide-eyed Scully. "Isaac? I was just about to come looking for you."

"We were studying," Isaac mumbles, brushing past her, heading for his room.

Mulder gives Scully a knowing look as Charlie ducks under his arm to avoid further conversation, without so much as a goodbye to her friend.

Isaac is already halfway down the hall before Mulder and Scully catch up. "Hey, did something happen?"

"No," he says, but the word is stretched thin.

"Wait up," Mulder says, reaching out to touch the boy's shoulder, but Isaac flinches.

"I just want to go," he says, lips curling up in a snarl. Scully draws back in surprise at seeing the withdrawn face of the boy they met years ago, a striking contrast to the happier version they'd grown accustomed to in the last few weeks.

One of the residents pokes her head out her bedroom door at the sound of raised voices. "Everything OK?"

"We're fine," Mulder says, attempting a reassuring smile. The woman doesn't look convinced, but she closes the door.

Scully turns to the boy, whispering, "Isaac, we want to help…"

"You can't," he sighs. Then, almost shameful, "I'm fine. I'm just tired. Really."

There's a pause; Mulder realizes he can hear the boy's breath in the silence, fast and nervous.

"Sleep well," Scully says finally, still watching him.

"G'night."

"What was that about?" Scully asks after he's safely behind the door, folding her arms around herself.

"They were in the hospital wing…his friend said they were studying."

Scully shoots him a sideways glance. "Do you believe that?"

"Not a bit," he murmurs. "She was covering for something. He lies like you do."

Scully sniffs. "Hormones, you think?"

Mulder grimaces. Isaac is bright, but also fifteen. "Possibly. Have we had that, uh, talk with him yet?"

Scully raises an eyebrow. "That's your territory."

"You're the one with the MD after your name."

"That particular conversation would be much more appropriate coming from you," she counters.

"Yeah, well, we've kinda had other things to worry about," he mutters. "I think it's more likely they found something they weren't supposed to."

"Like what?"

Mulder shrugs. "Like whatever is responsible for turning a woman's crushed shoulder into a minor sprain."

Scully's nostrils flare, an argument poised on the tip of her tongue.

"You're probably right, it's nothing. We should keep an eye on him, in any case," he recants. "In the meantime, I think I'm going to take another look around."

"What do you think you're going to find that you didn't last time?"

He shrugs. "I don't know, but I can't stay here until I know we're safe."

He can hear them outside his bedroom door, talking softly. He can't hear the words, but he doesn't need to to know they're talking about him.

Isaac curls up in his bed, facing the wall, and shuts his eyes tightly.

 _One…two…three…_

He counts to six hundred, but long after their footsteps retreat, he's still not asleep.

He hasn't had a single nightmare since arriving at the compound. Save for that one time he and Charlie crossed the fence, he hasn't had headaches, or visions. His hands no longer burn when he gets upset, and his stomach doesn't hurt with the vestiges of the virus.

But it's not enough, and he feels impotent rage rising up within him once again. Mosely was one of _Them_. One of the men chosen to do unspeakable things to his patients in the name of creating a new master race, who quite possibly was behind the same project that killed his mother and destroyed his family.

And yet, there was no new race. There were only a few desperate people living in the middle of the desert, protected by invisible walls.

Isaac sighs and sits up. Could he forgive Mosely and his compatriots? The answer is a swift, undeniable "no."

…but where could they go? Where would they live?

Worse, would his parents resent him for being the catalyst?

Tears prick at his eyes and he wipes them away, furious with himself. More than ever, he wishes he'd never given in to Charlie's goading, had just thrown the hard drive away, buried it beneath the rocks and sand so they could live in peace.

The rest of the compound is settling in for the night; Mulder passes just one person, someone from the maintenance crew, mopping the floor. The other man looks up from his work and nods in greeting, and Mulder does the same, the exchange taking no more than a couple seconds, but it doesn't stop him from looking over his shoulder every few steps to make sure he's not being followed.

The elevator hangs open, silent, like it's been waiting. He half expects to find Mosely standing on the other side, but the doors open on the empty hallway.

He weaves his way through the halls to the waste management room, intuition guiding him to the locked door at the opposite end. He hesitates over the keypad, wondering if it's rigged. He frowns, then finds the gum wrapper in his pocket, a small piece of foil. Ripping a piece of cardboard from a nearby broken down box, he slips the foil over one side and whisks the makeshift card through the slot.

 _Red. Shit._

His heart quickens, he feels his muscles winding up like a toy, ready for an alarm to sound and notify someone of his presence. No footsteps, no alarms, just the hum and clank of machinery behind him. It's warm down here; sweat slithers down the back of his neck and he swallows hard.

 _Try again._

He does, this time sliding the card faster through the lock, but without luck. He can feel his throat going dry with the heady, acidic taste of adrenaline.

 _Shit. Third time's a charm._

The light flickers, echoing his heartbeat, before flashing green.

 _Yes._

The door clicks open and Mulder steps inside. The echo of the door lock sounds like a thunderclap behind him. There's little to see; it's pitch black. He fumbles along the inner wall for a switch or a lever, and when he finds it, the black glows green before brightening enough to make him squint.

His heart sinks as he realizes his stealth may have been for not. The walls are lined with more boxes and discarded furniture.

But he hesitates; it's storage, but it's also tidy. There's an open space in the middle. Someone has been here recently; the floor is clean, no footprints tracked in from the dusty waste tanks.

He takes a few steps into the dim gray area, surprised to see a shadow shifting at the far end of the room. His jaw tightens at the sight, fear creeping into his bloodstream, but a pause reveals it's only his reflection in a window.

He approaches the opposite end of the room, blinking; there must be a room on the other side of the glass, but it's dark, too.

There's something else; a smell, subtle and familiar, and vaguely unpleasant. Different from the antibiotic smell of processed waste.

He winces, feels his initial sense of relief begin to waver. The door to the glass room is also locked, though the keypad is the same as the others, easily bypassed.

He finds his hand tightening on the handle, his fingers reaching out. A count begins in his head; five, four, three, two—

He swipes the foil and mashes the keys. The door beeps lightly and unlocks with a resounding click that echoes in the mostly empty room, swinging open to darkness and a stench that's too real, bringing back memories.

The light glows green, then brightens, shining down on a large glass tube on a table of metal. It looks like a hyperbaric chamber, once used by hospitals to aid in healing burn victims, but this one isn't healing anything as far as Mulder can see.

The creature within is still, but that doesn't make Mulder feel better. The glass isn't reinforced; it's probably locked. But it doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge his presence.

The smell is terrible, overpowering, reminding him of the deep scratch on Scully's shoulder, of the darkest corner of a department store in Pennsylvania.

The creature remains still as Mulder approaches, the eyes glossy and glazed, milky white against dark onyx flesh. Shimmering under the fluorescent lights, it appears to be covered in scales, muscular ripples along its limbs.

He considers, in a moment of nostalgic reflex, convincing Scully to perform an autopsy. Wonders who is responsible for bringing the creature here, and why.

He circles the tank, keeping a wide berth from the thing, with its dark, angry eyes.

But this one's eyes aren't angry at all, really. They stare blankly, seeing nothing, and Mulder feels a flicker of something that's almost compassion; trapped like an animal in this strange tube-like construction, its strength diminished in captivity.

It's obvious Mulder's species is the unlucky prey on this new planet, but pity wells up in him nonetheless. Drawing closer, he presses his fingers lightly against the glass, a stunned child in a gruesome candy store. The affirmation of his hunch doesn't bring relief, only dread.

Scully's warning comes back to him in a wry moment of clarity; if you go digging in a graveyard, you're bound to dig up a body eventually.

 _And what a body it is_ , he thinks grimly.

He backs slowly away from the chamber, shutting off the light, preparing to leave. He has to tell Scully and Isaac.

That's when he hears it; a faint humming, rising and falling like a cold waterfall through his blood.

Talking.

He drops to the floor, cursing his knee as it locks up from the sudden movement. He can't hear specifics, but the pattern is definitely speech, growing closer.

 _You left the light on. They'll know you're here._

He grimaces, teeth pulled back in pain and fear as he crawls along the floor at the edge of the room, slowly making his way to the far corner, looking for a place to hide. His eyes have yet to adjust to the dark.

 _Go go go_

He makes his way to the opposite corner, bumping into a chair, another chair, and finally under what might be a desk. He curls up, making himself as small as he possibly can, breathing hard.

He waits; the outer room has gone quiet. Then a shuffle, a step, and as his eyes adjust he can make out a shadow under the door. He pulls his sweat-soaked t-shirt over his mouth to muffle his breathing as the door opens.

"God, it fucking stinks in here, Mose."

"Decomposition isn't roses, Mr. Manners."

"Pfft. How do you want to do this?" the other man sighs, and Mulder recognizes it as Jay.

"Same as last time," Mosely says easily. "Help me get the other one out."

"Alright. Let's make it quick, this one's feisty."

Mulder only has a narrow view of the chamber, but he can hear the vacuum release as it's opened; a fresh wave of the smell hits him.

"Oh, god," Jay moans, muffled.

Mosely doesn't sound affected; there's barely any strain in his voice as the dark shape in the chamber is lifted and dragged away. Mulder dares to stick his head out a bit as the men work to get a better view, but quickly tucks himself back into the shadows.

 _They catch you, it's not going to be a slap on the wrist and a tour._

Suddenly there's a keening, a high-pitched wail, and he flinches, his elbow hitting the concrete behind the desk hard enough to bruise.

"Fuck, hurry up!" Jay says.

"In time," Mosely's voice again. Mulder swallows as a squirming black shape is placed in the chamber after some struggle.

He wants to get a closer look, but he has more pressing issues now; footsteps, coming around the glass and toward the desk.

"Don't forget to calibrate it," Mosely says as he approaches, and Mulder closes his eyes, willing himself invisible. The other man isn't paying attention.

"You didn't get enough in this one, Mose, it's…not…gonna…"

"It's fine," Mosely snaps, moving back toward the door, and Mulder feels his sweating palms release their grip, his fingernails pressed deeply enough to leave welts.

There's a humming as the chamber is closed, though the creature inside is waking up from its drugged stupor. This one is very much alive.

 _And pissed off_ , Mulder thinks with a twist in his gut, remembering how flimsy the glass had looked, when the creature within was thankfully not alive to break free.

 _But this one wants dinner_ , he thinks.

Dismay becomes terror as the creature begins to fight; he can hear the scraping of claws against the glass, an eerie, terrible sound, and there's rising panic in Jay's voice. "Turn it on, goddamned thing, it's—"

A surge, louder humming, and suddenly the creature goes rigid. Mulder's line of sight only allows him to see its back as it arches.

"Jesus, you could've done that sooner," Jay complains, but there's no response. Footsteps again, shuffling away, as Mosely circles the chamber, much as Mulder had done. He mutters something unintelligible as the creature's back arches a second time, and a stunted screech emanates from behind the glass walls.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Nothing beautiful about it," Jay mutters.

Mulder's ass is starting to ache, but he doesn't dare move.

 _Leave. Leave. Please, leave, so I can get up and get to Scully and Isaac and—_

It's as if Mosely can read his mind.

"Come," the man beckons, and Mulder hears them retreat, the door closes, and what little light filtered through from the other room is gone. There are muffled whimpers and groans coming from the tank, and Mulder presses his back into the hardwood of the desk, sweating fear, desperate to move.

But he waits, legs aching, head pounding, fear coursing through his veins like ice.

It could be minutes or hours, he risks standing just outside view of the looking glass, stretching his legs and massaging out a cramp.

There's a sad mewling screech and the occasional flailing thunk from the alien creature in the tank, but it appears to be secure. Mulder can just barely make out its shadow, can see its muscular body moving constantly, almost rippling, the head tossing back and forth in an endless search for nothing. Pain, constant pain.

Something tugs at him once again; dangerous empathy, the kind that will get him killed, and he pushes it down, swallowing with a dry throat.

He creeps to the door, listening, ear pressed to cold metal, the sensation harsh.

Nothing.

The handle is smooth and slides easily in the palm of his hand, opening to the first room, now dark.

Still nothing.

Taking a deep breath, he slinks out of the door, casting a last glance over his shoulder at the writhing thing in the glass tube before making his retreat.

 _Can't stay here. Get Scully and Isaac and get out. Use the breach in the fence, we can sneak out tonight and be gone by morning. The truck, we left the truck. This time tomorrow, we'll be three states away and running._

Always running.

The halls are even quieter now; a quick passing check of the clock suggests he's been underground for two hours and then some; his bruised ass can still feel the cold concrete.

"Mulder?" Scully stands in the doorway, concern painted on her face, hair falling over her eyes. She pulls her bathrobe tighter around her. "What is it?"

Her voice is the tether he needs to bring him back, turn his scattered thoughts into actions. He bypasses her and grabs for her backpack.

"Mulder, what are you doing?"

"We're leaving," Mulder says, unable to look her in the eye, shoving a handful of clothes—dirty or clean, it doesn't matter, they'll all be filthy by the time they're far enough away from this place—into Scully's pack, heading for the bathroom to grab whatever he can find.

"Mulder, talk to me!"

The edge in her voice gives him pause, stopping him in his tracks. He realizes his hands are shaking.

"They're keeping one of them," Mulder says flatly. "One of the things, they're storing it. I watched them move a body—"

"A human body?"

"No, one of the…the things," he continues, unable to find the words to describe the suffering, the sound of its claws on the glass, the way it moved in the chamber, pure agony in its dull, tortured eyes.

The way it would rip every single one of them to shreds should it find a way out.

"Look, we can talk about it later, but I'm not going to sleep in the same building as one of them. God knows why they're keeping it in the first place. I don't want to find out what Mosely is planning to do with it," he says, turning to find Scully with her arms folded across her chest.

"Mulder, you don't think—"

"You didn't just spend an hour freezing your ass off, listening to that thing try to claw its way out of a glorified Tupperware."

She's staring at him with her sea-blue eyes, fear creasing her brow. "If what you're saying is true, if there's a threat, we need to tell people, we need to—"

He shakes his head violently. "No. For all we know, they already know about this little side project."

"How do you know it's—"

"He was there!" Mulder explodes. "Goddammit, stop trying to rationalize your way out of this. He was there with Jay, the two of them moved the dead one and replaced it with fresh meat."

"But why? If they were studying it, why wouldn't they say something?"

"That's my point," Mulder growls. "They haven't said anything. They've lied to us. Worse than skeletons in the closet, they're keeping aliens in the basement." He snorts but doesn't smile at his own joke. "It's in a tube. Looked like a hyperbaric chamber, but it's not strong enough to contain it, Scully. I think the magnetite around here makes it weak, and I think that machine is testing its limits. Blocking the magnetite so Mosely can study the effects."

"How is that possible?"

"That's the million dollar question. But if he can control it, he has power. Maybe it's a weapon, maybe he uses it as a…a threat to keep people in line. All I know is I don't want us anywhere near it."

He feels his voice rising, unsteady, willing her to listen to him. He knows what he's asking, knows the price they'll pay; living in fear, foraging for food and running, always running for their lives.

"Mulder, these are people...people who have befriended us, taken us in. We have no reason to believe they're—"

"Jay was with him, Scully," Mulder insists. "If there's one, there are bound to be more. We can't risk it, we don't have time."

"If this was before, you would help them."

"The only people I care about protecting are you and Isaac."

"That's not the person I know," she says, a hint of disappointment in her voice. When she meets his eyes again, he doesn't recognize himself in them, and he doesn't know what scares him more. The new world's changes, or how much the new world has changed them.

She worries her lip with her teeth, then finally says, "I need to collect my research from the greenhouses. I can't do it in the dark, and the patrol will see us if I use the flashlight. But I can get it tomorrow, and we can be gone by tomorrow night."

Mulder opens his mouth to protest, but she holds up a hand.

"We've been here for weeks. One more night won't kill us."

"You hope," Mulder mutters, but the fight has gone out of him.

"Tomorrow," she repeats more forcefully. "We need time to prepare, to tell Isaac."

He stands, hands in his pockets. "Well…I know I won't be sleeping tonight."

"That makes two of us," she sighs.

JULY 18, 2015

6:45 A.M.

"Isaac?"

"Yeah, in here."

He's sitting on his bed, staring at the opposite wall. Scully blinks, looking around. His room is small, dark. There are pages from his notebook taped on the wall next to his bed, something cut out from an old magazine. There are clothes on the floor, an open textbook on his desk, homework and half-sharpened pencils scattered across it.

"Isaac?" she repeats, not knowing what she's asking for.

"I'm OK," he says, but the words are hollow.

"May I sit?"

He nods, and she takes a seat next to him on the bed. "I…I have some news," she says carefully, watching his face, which remains expressionless. "Something's happened, and we have to leave. Soon."

This gets his attention. "What? Why?"

"Mulder found something. We're not safe here," she whispers.

His face transforms, despair rather than anger, sadness rather than fear. "What did he find?"

She shakes her head. "That's not—"

"Please…tell me," he insists, before she can tell him it's not important.

"Tonight. We'll explain everything soon," she says.

"Was it something I did?" he asks, the words ringing hollow, as if his throat were carved from bone rather than flesh.

"What? No," she says. "Why would you ask?"

He shakes his head, ignoring the question. "What about…what about everyone else?"

She closes her eyes, biting her lip. "It's just us."

"Oh," he says, the words sinking in. "Where will we go?" His voice is small now, tiny, and she reaches for his hand. He doesn't resist.

"I don't know yet. We're thinking the northwest will be cooler, less crowded. But…nothing is certain yet."

He nods. "When?"

"Tonight. After hours. You can't say anything to anyone; not even Charlie."

He flinches at the mention of her name, and Scully wishes, not for the first time, that she could peer inside his young mind.

"This needs to stay between us," she continues carefully, watching his eyes for understanding. He nods, biting his lip, and picks absently at a fingernail.

"Are they going to come after us?"

"No. No, I don't think so. But…it's complicated. We're taking precautions."

He nods but doesn't say anything, the lines in his forehead deepened with worry.

"Are you sure you're feeling OK, Isaac?"

He forces a smile. "No…I mean, yeah, I…I just didn't sleep."

She gives his hand a squeeze. When she stands to leave, he surprises her by standing, too. His arms go around her before she realizes what's happening. They're almost nose to nose, and as she hugs him tighter, she wonders when he got so tall. She presses a kiss to his temple as her eyes burn with tears.

"We'll be OK," she whispers. "I promise."

"I know," he says faintly. "I know."

His face stays with her long after she's left. Something about his face, the lost quality of his voice, as if some vital part of him had been leached from his soul…and anger, so much anger, still. The thought gives her a chill, but also a measure of certainty and clarity she hadn't fully grasped until now.

The sinking feeling that Mulder was right all along.

Isaac waits for Scully to leave before slipping the hard drive into his backpack along with several changes of clothes, and his few possessions.

But he's not going to school, not today.

He needs to know for certain.

The elevator is closed, the digital panel glowing a red number 2, but the door to the stairs is unlocked. The sound of the latch clicking back into place echoes in the stairwell, and he winces, waiting to see if anyone heard.

Nothing but the sound of his heart in his chest.

He continues to the second lower level, keeping his footsteps light. The door is the same heavy metal, fireproof, with a window looking out to end of a long hallway that reminds him of his dreams. Only the glow of the emergency lights guides him, and the walls look sickly and green.

The layout is immediately familiar, but this wing has no hospital. There's the loud hum of equipment from behind some, the _clank_ of machinery at work.

Instinct tells him to turn around, but something else draws him deeper into the compound's basement.

He creeps forward, peering around the first corner on the right. A shadow materializes at the opposite end of the hall, then disappears, melding into the wall. Isaac draws back, throat suddenly dry as parchment. He peeks again, but the figure is gone. He tells himself he's seeing things, but adrenaline still hums through his blood.

He creeps down this wing, looking into the first room on his right, but it's abandoned, filled with junk. Same for the next door, and the next. He watches the opposite end of the hall for movement, but no one appears, and the final door he tries is an unused lab with more equipment. Disappointment and relief flood him in equal measure.

 _There's nothing here._

Isaac turns around, prepared to leave, and that's when the hand comes down on his shoulder.

"Wrong place, wrong time, kid," a voice says roughly at his ear. He doesn't have time to scream before there's a sharp sting at the side of his neck. His vision blurs, then goes dark.

He has the strength for one last thought before he's caught in the riptide of the drug, pulled under.

 _They found me._


	17. Chapter 17

_Trigger warning: Major character death in this chapter._

* * *

JULY 18, 2015

4:27 P.M.

When Peter's back is turned, Scully sneaks a handful of the latest seeds into a folded paper envelope and tucks it into her bra. The copper solution, a handful of soil samples, and the DNA test solution go into her pack, alongside a notebook with meticulously copied notes of their research. She rationalizes that it's not stealing; she's left Peter everything he needs to continue the work on his own.

Regardless, she spends the rest of the day feeling unsteady, distracted, and guilty for what they're about to do. Mulder's voice is an unexpected surprise at the greenhouse threshold, and it does nothing to ease her mind.

"What's up, Doc?"

She purses her lips. "You should know better than anyone, Mr. Hale. I'll be right back," she says, turning to Peter, who is frowning at something in his binder. He waves her off without looking up.

Mulder smiles, hand at her elbow, leading her outside to the back wall of the greenhouse. "Get everything?" he asks, watching the door.

She smiles brightly, a false face as a resident passes by from a distance, and waves. "Everything," she murmurs. "Did you pack?"

"As much as I could without drawing attention," he says. "Did you tell Isaac?"

"Yes," she whispers, sucking in a breath, waiting a pause as someone's shadow passes by on the other side of the greenhouse glass. "What's the plan here, Mulder?"

He ducks his head. "Tonight, after lights down. There's a breach in the fence at the far end, we can walk around. There are only two patrols and they don't make it out that far; Jay said as much when they brought us in."

"How far is it?"

"A mile or two. Then four back to the truck. We should be able to cover it with time to put some space between us, find a place to hole up for a bit. I don't think they'll come after us, but I'd rather be safe."

"And what if they do?" she murmurs, eyes downcast.

"Do what?"

"Come after us."

He draws in a breath, opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted.

"Mr. Hale? Dr. Scully?"

They turn to find Charlie, her eyes wide and worried, hands fidgeting at her sides.

"What's wrong?" Scully asks, a sinking feeling in her stomach at the girl's solemn expression, wondering what she might have overheard.

"It's Isaac. He's gone."

Scully looks to Mulder and back to Charlie, folding her arms across her chest.

"He wasn't in school," Charlie explains. "I was going to talk to him about…I was going to talk to him. But he never showed."

"I talked to him this morning," Scully says, glancing at Mulder, unable to conceal the rising alarm in her words. "Are you saying no one has seen Isaac since then? That he's been gone for…seven hours?"

Charlie blanches, nods.

Scully's fingers fumble at her apron, ready to abandon her post.

"Hey…hey," Mulder murmurs, stilling her with a touch on the wrist. "He's probably holed up somewhere. I'll go."

"Then I'm going with you," she insists.

Mulder shakes his head. "Someone has to stay put in case he shows up. Charlie and I will ask around."

Her lips tighten, but she nods.

"It's OK. He can't have gotten far," Mulder says, keeping his tone light, trying to think. Charlie's hands won't stop moving, tugging at one ear, hand over her mouth, then back down to her sides where they toy with the edge of a piece of orange plastic in her pocket. "Why don't we take a walk? Let Dr. Scully get back to work," he says, meeting Scully's eye, giving a slight nod.

Scully's chin tilts up in a silent challenge, but she turns and goes back inside.

"When did you last see him?" Mulder asks, when Scully and the rest of the greenhouse staff are out of range. They're heading for the compound, the back side, opposite the garage where Mulder is supposed to be working.

"Last night…when we were done at the hospital," Charlie says.

Mulder give her a sideways glance. "Does this have anything to do with your 'research'?"

The girl shakes her head, but the look on her face tells a different story.

"Charlie, I can't help if you don't tell me the truth," he says. They stop at the back of the compound where it's all but deserted. The girl wraps her arms around herself.

"I don't…I can't tell you," she says weakly.

"Then why did you come to us?"

"Because…because…we weren't supposed to find out," she sighs. "I told him we couldn't say anything. I don't know what would happen…"

"Charlie," he says, patience waning.

There's a hiss under her breath that sounds almost like profanity. When she speaks, her lips barely move around the words. "We looked at the hard drive."

Mulder draws back. "You got in?"

She nods. "It was a bunch of data from some project? Isaac told me…he said it had to do with him. And you," she narrows her eyes. "And we found something else there, too."

"What was it?"

"Mosely," she whispers. "His name was in one of the files."

Mulder can almost hear the sound of the pieces clicking into place. "I have an idea…but just in case I'm wrong," he says, kneeling down, ignoring the pain in his leg, bringing them face to face. "Charlie, I need you to do something for me. I need you to canvas the outside, as far as you can along the perimeter."

The girl nods.

"If anyone stops you, tell them—"

"I'm working on a school project," she finishes, and Mulder raises an eyebrow. "It always works," she says with a shrug.

"Fine," he says. "I'm going to look inside. If you find anything, go to Dr. Scully. Understand?"

She nods, and darts off around the corner.

"Shit," he mutters, making his way back to the main entrance as fast as his knee will allow.

Isaac isn't in his room; not that Mulder expected him to be. It's too neat, but not sparse; he was careful about what he packed. Anyone else would think he was just an incredibly tidy teenager.

His next stop is the school and its one classroom, but he doesn't go in, doesn't linger at the door. A glance through the window is all he needs to know Isaac isn't there.

 _Downstairs._

The thought pulls him down the hallway, toward the elevator. The sense of danger seems to seep from the building's concrete pores as he descends to the third level, darkness enveloping him like a shroud.

"Isaac?" he hisses, making his way from room to room.

No response.

He's outside the waste management room now, finds himself opening the door, moving inside. The door at the back is unlit, quiet.

He slips the false keycard through the slot and presses the keypad until it lights up green. The handle opens too easily, not a squeak or a protest from the old door as it swings open, nor so much as a click when it shuts.

It's too dark to see, but he knows what waits at the other end of this room, the black window beckoning from the other side.

"No surprises this time."

His blood freezes at the voice, and Mulder thinks this is what it must have been like when his heart stopped, when his body fell from the sky and knocked the life out of him.

He dives to the left, slamming into something hard. There's the faint sound of the door handle turning as Mulder scrambles behind the first thing he can find; an overturned desk with one broken leg.

The door opens, the orange glow becoming a narrow swatch of light across the floor.

"Dr. Scully?"

The young girl's voice is high, lingering in the plexiglass walls of the greenhouse like a bell.

Scully turns. "Charlie? Did you find him?"

The girl shakes her head. "I looked everywhere. I checked all our usual hangouts. He's not outside."

Scully presses her lips together hard.

"Is everything OK?" Peter asks, walking up behind Scully.

"Yes," she says immediately, pasting on a smile. "Everything's fine. I just need to take a minute."

"Sure, sure," Peter says, looking suspicious. Scully hurries Charlie outside to.

Charlie continues, "Mr. Hale…have you seen him yet?"

"No, he hasn't come back."

"He was going to look inside."

"Then that's where we'll start."

Scully knocks on Isaac's bedroom door, but there's no answer. She doesn't expect one. The seed of doubt has already taken root in her stomach, winding its way up her throat.

He'd been so upset, so distant. She shouldn't have let him out of her sight until she was sure—

"Isaac, I'm coming in," she warns, pushing aside her thoughts, hand damp on the handle.

The room is as she left it this morning, with no sign of her son.

 _Damnit._

"Dr. Scully?" Charlie interrupts.

"Yes?" she says, but she's barely listening, recalling Mulder's insistence that they leave, Isaac's strange behavior this morning….

"Dr. Scully, I—"

Scully turns, taking Charlie in for the first time, her pixie hair and wide brown eyes that hold something deeper, beyond her young age. She can see why Isaac likes her; there's the same loneliness, the same defiance.

"Dana. It's just Dana," she says finally.

"Dana. There's something you should know," she says. "I told Mr. Hale this morning, he said he had an idea—"

It comes to her suddenly, the reason why Mulder was nowhere to be found, the first place he'd go.

"Oh god…" Scully whispers. "I think…I think I might know where he is."

"Where?"

Scully swallows hard. "Wait here."

She jogs over to her room. The gun is in her desk drawer, and she tucks the weapon into her belt, hoping she won't need to use it.

"Come on," she says, leading Charlie out to the main corridor to the elevator, but the lights are off, and there's no response when she pushes the button.

"Weird…" Charlie says, bypassing Scully, heading for the stairwell.

It's locked.

 _No…not locked_ , Scully realizes, a sinking feeling in her stomach as she peeks inside the narrow window. _Barred._

"What the hell?" Charlie hisses, pressing on the lever, pushing her weight against it.

"Someone got here before us," Scully murmurs.

"Why would Isaac lock us out?"

"I don't think he did," Scully says carefully. "Is there another way to the underground?"

Charlie shakes her head. "If there were, I'd know. I've been all over this place."

"Alright—we'll do this the hard way, then," Scully grimaces, searching for something to use as a lever, finding a fire axe at the end of the hall.

"What are you doing?" Charlie asks.

"Stand back," Scully says by way of explanation, inserting the metal blade of the axe between the doors and twisting at the handle. The axe pries them open with a groan until they're wide enough for Scully to squeeze through. The shaft lies before them; a fifty-foot drop, but she can see the top of the elevator car.

"We can get in through there," Scully says, pointing down. "How good are you at climbing?"

Charlie looks at Scully, sizing her up. "How good are _you_ at climbing?"

This gets a small smile. "You go first; I'll keep an eye out. There are rungs," she gestures under her feet, to the metal bars spaced three feet apart. "You have a clear path down to the elevator car, and there should be an escape door on top."

"How do you know all this stuff?" Charlie asks, dropping to the floor and worming her way, backwards, into the shaft.

"Let's just say this isn't the first time 'Mr. Hale' has gone missing," Scully mutters.

Charlie's feet find the first rung, hands clutching at the tops of the doors. Scully kneels, ready to catch the girl's arms. It will be a stretch, but Charlie is limber, with the confidence of youth.

 _Let's hope you are, too, Dana._

A twinge in her ribs reminds her of her age, but she pushes the thought aside as she watches Charlie descend. The girl reaches the bottom with a resounding _clunk_ that echoes through the chamber and makes Scully wince.

 _Please let the machinery drown us out._

She follows, her descent slower than Charlie's. Scully manages to make it down the chamber no worse for the wear, but the landing in the elevator car is enough to knock the wind from her.

"You OK?" Charlie asks.

"Fine," Scully gasps. "Keep your voice down."

They pause to listen for a moment, but there's only the buzz of the facility's inner workings; air filtration, water and waste, electricity, all of it pumped through the building's neural center. Charlie seems to know where they're going.

"That's storage," she whispers as they creep along the walls, peering around the corner. "Just a lot of old stuff they don't use. Most of the rooms down here are full of junk."

Scully makes a noncommittal sound in the back of her throat, eyes roaming the dark hall.

If there wasn't anything important on this floor, why was the stairwell barred, and the elevator shut off?

Mulder takes a chance and stretches, his knee screaming at the sudden change of position. His legs went numb awhile ago.

The room is dark, a weak, orange glow coming through the door's narrow glass window, but his eyes have adjusted. He's hidden amongst the detritus, fixated on the door at the opposite end, where Mosely and Jay are talking.

 _California_ , he thinks, grimacing at the knots in his shoulders. _Oregon. Washington._ He would find Isaac, and they'd head northwest, following the line of desert until they reached the ocean, then upward, into the cold, northern forests.

He presses himself against the wall, feeling the concrete against his back, cloaked in heavy shadow. He catches a glimpse of Mosely's white hair through the glass window, hears Jay's voice, then the light goes out and he's once again bathed in darkness.

There is the sound of the door opening and the two men carrying something heavy. Mulder can't see it without revealing his position, but he can smell it, pungent and foul, can hear the creature's claws as they drag along the floor, a gritty sound against the concrete.

He waits until the door to the waste management area snicks shut behind them, then, keeping his back to the wall, sneaks toward the room at the opposite end. Breathing hard, Mulder shifts away from the wall, slowly, painfully standing until he can see above the edge of the window. At first it's too dark to make out more than the outline of the chamber, but there's someone inside.

He risks another two inches, his bad knee shaking, but the increased angle gives him a clearer picture, and his heart lurches.

Isaac lays flat in the chamber, unconscious and visibly unharmed, but that does nothing to make Mulder feel better. He remembers the way the alien reacted when the contraption was turned on, the way it writhed and screamed. It was a device designed to cause suffering, and Isaac was trapped within its smooth glass walls.

He wheels around, searching for a weapon; an axe, a crowbar, hell, even a hefty piece of two-by-four—something to use as leverage to distract them long enough to get Isaac back…

There's a slim piece of metal laying in one corner; it's a scrap, but the end is sharp. Clutching the stick in one hand, Mulder creeps back to the door. He swallows hard, gripping the handle. It opens too easily.

He's eyeing the chamber, searching for an opening, when Mosely speaks from over his shoulder.

"Hello, Mr. Hale. Why don't you put that down?"

He hadn't heard them come back. He freezes, staring at his son through the walls of the chamber, strengthening his resolve.

"I'll drop it when you let him go."

"I wondered if you'd make an appearance," Mosely says, smiling.

Mulder grits his teeth, tasting tin and adrenaline at the back of his throat. "I said, let him go."

"I'm sorry, that's really not possible." His voice is cool as water. "I don't think you're in any position to make that kind of request."

"Damnit, Mosely! He's just a kid."

"Oh, I think we both know that's not true."

Mulder swallows hard, trying to keep both Mosely and Jay in his line of sight. Isaac's pale frame lays stretched in the chamber behind him, hands twitching at the wrists, fingers tapping a silent, frenetic rhythm against the glass.

"Get him out of there!"

"We're controlling it, Mr. Hale. This chamber removes the strange effect this earth seems to have on them. It's allowed us to study the creatures. Right now it's holding him at bay, but you'll see, in a moment, just how powerful he is."

"He's a human being, you son of a bitch," Mulder says, advancing on the man, the metal cold in his hands. Mosely's mouth twitches upward in a grin.

"I couldn't believe it at first…I'd heard of him through various channels, of course, but we lost sight of him after Idaho. It was assumed he was dead; the attack was unplanned, we had no fair warning, we knew he didn't possess full immunity due to his unique genetic structure. I never imagined…but he survived," Mosely says, almost in a trance as he watches Isaac's jerky movements. "He survived, Mr. Hale. You can't possibly believe how remarkable it is to meet him, to have the chance to see for myself what he's capable of, what we can learn from him."

"You," Mulder spits. "You _knew_ ," he breathes.

"I suspected, but it wasn't until we had the blood sample that I knew for sure. For so long we waited, knowing what was coming. We never could have prepared for this, but now…we have him," he says, gesturing to Isaac's prone form. "He's the key to our lock, the answer to the puzzle of our continued survival, and to have him here…why, I don't think you realize just how amazing that is."

Mulder feels himself attack before he realizes it's what he's going to do, driven by blind rage. Mosely fends him off with a swift, easy motion, his arm moving faster than humanly possible as it connects with Mulder's jaw. The impact sends him flying backwards, his body crumpling against the cinderblock wall.

The world moves in hazy lines, finally reforming into recognizable shapes. His chin aches, a furious throb that reverberates through his skull.

"Mose?" Jay grunts from the other side of the room. "You want me to take care of him?"

"Leave him. Let's continue."

Jay turns to the opposite side of the chamber. Mulder tries to get up, feels his knee buckle. "No!" he croaks, helpless, as a metallic hum begins to emanate from the chamber, Isaac's movements within becoming more frantic. Then a high-pitched wail that Mulder realizes is coming from Isaac's mouth as his head tosses back and forth.

"Stop! You're killing him!"

Mosely doesn't seem to notice, intent on the boy. "Everything in good time, Mr. Hale. Transformation is painful."

Mulder lunges at Mosely again, wild with fear, but Mosely fends him off easily, this time with a shove that sends Mulder sprawling.

Isaac's body arches in the chamber, his limbs rigid, almost as though he's levitating, and Mulder's hands clench in sympathy. The boy's head turns, his eyes wide, meeting his father's for an infinite moment of suffering.

"No," Mulder wails, scrambling for purchase against the floor. There's a gasp as Isaac's body suddenly collapses again, going frightfully still behind the glass.

"Stop right there!"

Scully's voice rings out in the small room. She's trained the gun on Mosely, her gaze sharp.

"Watch out," Mulder says, hoarse.

"You OK Mulder?" she says, not taking her eyes off the other men. There's a soft sound, like a gasp, and Mulder glimpses Isaac's friend peeking around Scully's back.

"Let him go!"

Mosey sighs. "Please, don't make this harder than it has to be."

"I'll shoot!"

"He's not human, Scully," Mulder growls. "It won't work."

Scully's finger presses the trigger, the blast ringing out as Mosely drops to the ground, clutching his shoulder. She turns to Jay, whose hands are raised in surrender.

"Get down, or you're next," Scully hisses, waving the barrel of the gun toward the floor. "Now!"

Jay exchanges a look with Mosely, who nods for him to comply.

"He's not gonna stay down," Mulder gasps as Scully kneels by his side, checking for injuries. "Get…Isaac."

"Where is he?"

"He's…" Mulder gestures to the chamber behind them, struggling to his feet. Charlie lets out a soft moan at the sight.

"Oh…my God…" Scully whispers.

Isaac thrashes again, his body going rigid, then collapsing in seizure. She rushes to the chamber's door on the far side of the room, tugging on the capsule, fingers pressing buttons, but to no avail.

Jay tries to take advantage of her distress, rising up, but Mulder cries out, "Watch him, Scully!"

She turns and sets her sights on Jay just as he springs to attack. The bullet hits him square in the chest and he collapses, dark blood oozing from the wound. Unlike Mosely, his eyes turn glassy.

"Isaac!" Mulder pounds against the chamber, looks around for something to break the glass. A fire extinguisher lies against the far wall, and he grabs it, hitting it against the glass, but it doesn't crack. "Scully, help me!"

"I'm trying, this isn't working!"

"Look out!" Charlie cries, a moment too late. Mosely is up and grabs Scully from behind, grappling with her for the gun.

"Mulder!"

Charlie surprises them, launching herself at the man, pulling him back, but she's not strong enough to overpower him.

"You need to know which side you're on, Charlene. You belong to us, not them. You're a survivor. Remember that."

Mosely's arm comes back and pulls, plucking the girl off him like a piece of lint, tossing her aside. Her shoulder hits the wall, and her body crumples to the ground.

Distracted by the girl, he doesn't notice Scully with the gun, doesn't see her draw and point directly at the back of his neck.

The blast rings out in the tiny room, momentarily deafening. There's the smell of gunpowder and something else, an acrid, metallic scent, as the last of Mosely's life leaves his body.

"His blood—" Mulder begins, waiting for the burning sensation, but it doesn't come.

Scully rushes to Charlie, feeling for a pulse. She's already beginning to stir. "I think she's going to be fine."

"Scully, we gotta get him out!"

Isaac's body makes an impossible arch, his hands scraping against the tube. With a shrill wail, the boy collapses with a final twitching gasp as his last breath leaves his body. His chest is still.

Mulder continues his assault with the extinguisher, and the minutes pass. Scully works at the chamber's hatch with the metal scrap, using it like a crowbar.

"Mulder, it won't…" Scully says, her breath catching in a sob.

The glass is slowly giving way under Mulder's relentless pounding, but he's out of breath; so much effort for no reward, nothing but a spider's web of cracks.

Isaac knows this place, he knows it too well from his dreams, but this is no dream. This is the place at the end of the tunnel, the world collapsed and burning, the hallway lit in green, his whole existence boiled down to a singular moment of agony.

He remembers feeling his body being moved, dragged, hoisted and positioned, and then the pain began. Slow at first, a burning in his head, the humming thoughts rising and increasing to a frantic pitch. Soon he was helpless against it.

There's no escape from the white pain, the feeling of another energy hovering around him, pulling him forward against his suffering will.

And then it stops; the pain is gone in an instant, and when he finally opens his eyes, there is nothing to see. He can't feel his legs, his arms, his hands. He realizes this is what it feels like to be lost, to be left behind, to dissolve.

 _Isaac._

The sound of the word is foreign and awkward; he doesn't have a name in this place.

 _No_ , he thinks, pitiful and weak. _Not me, I am nothing. Please leave me alone._

 _Isaac._

He tries to open his mouth, but finds he doesn't have one. The thing—the unknown, unseeable thing—can hear him without it.

 _Isaac, you're safe now._

And he is, he realizes. Safe. A sudden weight lifts from his chest. No more running, no more dark corners, no more unknowns. Here, he can be everything. He can be eternal energy, life unencumbered by flesh. Untouchable.

 _Where am I?_ he thinks, testing the question in his mind, surprised at how light the words feel, how fast they travel without the clumsy need for lips and tongue.

 _You lack the language of our kind, but your primitive vocabulary might call this 'home'._

Home.

A thought occurs to him, and he asks the question before he means to, unused to the instant relay of thoughts in his head.

 _What will happen to them?_

 _The experiment failed._

 _Experiment?_

 _Yes. The planet is not fit for harvest. It will be returned to stasis._

 _Harvest?_ Realization dawns. _Stasis?_

 _Yes._

 _No, you don't understand_ , he thinks, suddenly frantic. _I need to go back._

The voice is flat, unconfused, unconcerned. _You are correct, I do not understand. You are one of us, Isaac. You are safe here_ , the thing repeats.

 _Those are people back there_ , Isaac says. _They're not an experiment. They're like us._

 _They are not like us, Isaac. They kill their own kind. They are weak._

 _But they're good, too. I'm like them,_ he thinks, putting as much force behind the thought as possible. _You can't kill them._

 _But you are here. You do not wish to be here?_

 _No_ , Isaac realizes, suddenly desperate for the chance to return to the darkness if it means he can live again. _No, I don't. Please, let me go back._

 _You wish to die?_

 _No_ , he says, frustrated. _No, I want to_ live.

There's silence, unnatural as it is without the sound of his own heartbeat, the sound of his breath. He waits, urgency growing.

 _Please_ , he thinks, hoping the creature hasn't left, hoping they'll listen. _Please, please._

There's a sudden tug, as though being pulled out of the sky, gravity reclaiming stolen property, then the sense of falling, plummeting downward and back into his body, an ocean of pain washing over him on impact.

His fists clench at his sides, the first breath is most painful, coming up for air, his eyes wide. He senses his mother and father outside, sees the cracks in stunningly sharp contrast to their faces. His head pounds, but his mind is clear, purified by moments spent in perfect freedom.

 _Stasis_ , he thinks, an abstract word with new meaning, as every part of his human form hums in perfect harmony with his extraterrestrial self.

Within the demagnetization chamber, he is no longer bound by the laws of the rocks. His fists open, and he feels the familiar energy rushing into him. The chamber concentrates it, channels it, and soon he feels heat, light, and freedom.

"Scully?"

"Mulder?"

"Scully…Scully we need to—"

They're interrupted by a sudden crack, powerful as lightning, a static charge from within the chamber that's now filled with smoke and light. Mulder's first thought is of Isaac, for his safety, until he realizes the boy is responsible for the immense heat and energy now emanating from the tube.

"Mulder," Scully breathes, her hand gripping his forearm painfully. "What's happening?"

"I don't…I don't know," he says, swallowing hard, glancing at Charlie, still curled on the ground. "But I don't think that thing's going to hold…"

"Hold what?" she says, looking back and forth between him and their son, sweat dotting her brow, breath hissing between her teeth.

There's a second crack, this time from the tube as the glass begins to give at the weakest point, and Mulder yells, "Duck!" throwing himself on the ground, covering Charlie's body with his own. He sees Scully go down out of the corner of his eye, her skin a hot white streak, her hair a red flame, just as the chamber explodes.

 _Smoke, fire, heat._

Isaac coughs, his lungs burning as he sits up, no longer encased in glass, awakening to the damage around him.

Mulder is folded over Charlie's body, curled around her on the floor, his back covered in the shattered fiberglass. Scully is also on the floor, hunched in a ball to their left.

"Mul…Mulder," Isaac croaks, swinging his legs over the side, surprised at his strength. The pain in his head is gone. He looks around for the source of the smoke; the desk in the back corner has gone up, the old, dry wood setting off like kindling.

"Mulder! Doc?"

A groan, a cough is the only faint response.

"Doc?" Isaac looks around. The fire extinguisher is on the floor next to him. He picks it up, aiming for the burning desk, but the valve has snapped off. He tosses it aside.

"Mulder?"

Another cough. "M'here. Scully?"

Isaac looks over his shoulder where the fire is creeping upward, undeterred by the concrete as old paint curls and drips off the wall. "We need to get out of here."

"Yeah…yeah…comin'," the man says, slowly rising from the floor, shards falling off his body in a glass rainfall as Isaac comes around to kneel beside Charlie. Her eyes flutter open.

"Charlie, wake up. Wake up," Isaac insists.

"Isaac?" Her voice is drowsy and thick. "What happened?"

"You're OK," he says, offering a hand. She takes it and he pulls her to her feet, shaken, but unharmed.

Mulder swallows, looking around, "Scully? Scully, we have to go—"

He turns to his partner, still curled on the floor, watches as she shifts, groans softly. A flame lashes out, dangerously close. The temperature in the room is already stifling.

 _If it gets to the tanks, this place will go up like a firework,_ he thinks. The thought is enough to snap him out of his trance. He leans down, tugging on her shoulder, trying to lift her.

"Scully," he coughs, "Scully, help me out here. We gotta go."

She shifts on the floor, slowly turning over. Isaac is stumbling toward the door with Charlie, glass shards trailing in their wake.

"Go," he urges them. "You need to warn the others. Scully!"

"Mulder…"

Her voice sounds strange, weak, and he whirls on her. "C'mon, Scully, we don't have time—"

He stops short when he sees her, the red blossoming across the center of her t-shirt like a rose. "Oh…"

"The glass, it hit me—"

"I got ya," he says, ignoring his shaking hands as he scoops her up. "Hang on, don't…Jesus, Scully, you're bleeding," he says, realizing as he helps her sit that his hands are covered, there's a growing pool on the floor. His throat is dry from the smoke. "Scully, come on—"

"Mulder…can't…" she murmurs, her breathing labored.

"Goddammit," he mutters, grabbing her under the shoulders, awkwardly pulling her up, and her scream sends a shooting pain through his chest. "For once, just…don't…argue." He looks around, frantic, as the fire encroaches.

"Mulder?" Isaac calls, his voice faint from the other room. "We're—oh," he wavers, seeing the blood splashed across the floor. The fire roars, something small makes a warning crack, the old fire extinguisher's canister hisses.

"Out!" Mulder yells with what little voice he has left. "Get out!"

Isaac takes Scully's other side, helping them both from the room with the chamber, shutting the door behind them. There's another explosion as the fire extinguisher ignites, but Mulder and Isaac are already working to move Scully toward the next door.

"Mulder," Scully says, drawing in a watery breath. Blood trickles from the corner of her mouth and she coughs, flecks of red sprayed across his shirt.

"Shit," he mutters. "Shit, Scully, hold on—"

"No," she shakes her head, her words slightly slurred. "Mulder…too deep…not gonna make it," she gasps.

"Fuck that," he growls.

"Won't…make it," she says, interrupted by a coughing fit that brings up even more blood. "Let me…let me go."

He looks at her in abject horror. "No! You can make it, you just have to—"

Isaac looks over Mulder's shoulder, and Scully looks him in the eye. "Tell him, Isaac…tell him…you need to go."

Another explosion rings out from the closed off room; the entire thing is engulfed in flames, and the door is beginning give, the window glass cracking under the pressure.

Isaac swallows. "No, Doc…no—"

"Tell him," she insists, but her eyes drift shut in a wince.

"Dammit, Scully!" Mulder grabs her roughly, his knee threatening to give as he pulls her sharply forward. "Help me!"

The boy hesitates, though, looking at Scully's pale face, and Mulder wheels on him. "Isaac!"

They move slowly, wrapping his arm around Scully's waist to stabilize her as Mulder uses what strength he has to move toward the door where Charlie is standing, watching with wide, watering eyes. The room is lined with cardboard boxes and old wood furniture, piles of kindling just waiting for a spark.

"We need to move," Mulder says through gritted teeth, his hands slippery with Scully's blood. Her hair hangs down over her face and she gags, a splatter of red landing on the floor in front of them.

"Mulder," Scully whispers again, this time softer, less insistent, her lips pressed to the side of his face. He can feel her against him, the life draining from her in red rivulets. "Please…I can't…breathe…"

He swears under his breath, gently setting Scully against the wall of the inner room, wiping sweat from his brow. "Hang on. We can do this, Scully, just…hang on."

Mulder turns on Charlie, standing in the hall. "You need to warn the others, tell them it's not a drill. Can you do that?"

Charlie's jaw trembles but she nods, turns, and sprints down the hall.

The temperature in the waste room has risen uncomfortably. Mulder turns back to the sound of a door slamming shut.

"Scully? Scully!"

She's standing, her face in the glass on the other side, white as a ghost, lips flecked with blood.

"No," Isaac moans thickly.

Mulder lunges toward the door, slamming his body into the handle, but it won't open. He scrambles in his pocket for his false key card, fingers slick on the keypad, but Scully is shaking her head. His eyes meet hers as he realizes what she's done. He can barely hear her through the glass, her voice strained from the effort of standing.

"Go. This…holds the fire…back…you'll have…more time…"

"Scully, open the door," he breathes hard, understanding what she means to do. "Don't do this. Open the goddamned door!"

The flat of his hand slaps uselessly against the hulking metal frame, and he throws his body against the structure again and again. Pound after pound, the steel door remains impenetrable. Scully leans with her forehead pressed to the window, eyes closed. Her fingers leave bloody prints on the surrounding glass.

Someone grabs his arm—Isaac, pulling him away—and he turns on the boy, all rage and fear. "Help her! You can use your…you can—"

Isaac swallows hard, tears streaming down his sooty cheeks. His powers are rendered useless by the rocks now. Mulder turns back to the door to see Scully slipping down.

"Mulder," she whispers, but he can't hear her, can only read her lips through the glass.

"Scully, why? Why are you doing this? Unlock the door…please…unlock it, we can still get you out. You can't leave us yet; we just found him. I can't do this without you—" but he can't continue because he's choking on smoke and tears. Scully's next words are weak, silent, as if it takes every ounce of strength she has left just to move her lips.

"Love you…both…go…"

Her face slips down beyond the narrow window, leaving just her fingers clinging to the glass, before those disappear as well. There's the scream of breaking glass as the window to the chamber's room finally shatters.

"No!" Mulder rages, renewing his assault on the door until Isaac screams.

"Stop! Stop it, she's...we have to go," he chokes out, and Mulder turns to find his son's face dripping with tears. "She's gone. We need to go, now, or we'll all be dead."

"We can't…she can't…" Mulder struggles, his voice hoarse and watery.

Isaac tugs on his arm, grabs for his hand, "Mulder," he pleads. "We need to go."

Somehow he finds himself following Isaac toward the elevators, throwing glances over his shoulder to where Scully would be, except she's not there; the door where she should be is now backlit by fire.

 _Scully_ , he thinks, barely able to stay upright at the thought. His legs move without his consent, away from her, away from the flames and heat, into the cool stairwell, up two flights.

The ground floor is awash in panic; the alarms continue to sound, the compound's residents congregate in the halls, confused. Mulder hears snippets of their conversations, words bouncing off him, but nothing sticks; he stumbles blindly onward behind Isaac.

"What's going on? Where's Mosely?"

"I don't see a fire…"

"Oh, my God…"

"He's bleeding!"

"Is that—"

Isaac scans the crowd in a panic, looking for Charlie, sees her standing at one of the exits.

"Charlie!"

Mulder shuffles along with the rest, still in shock, eyes trained on the back of Isaac's head as he and Charlie push through the compound's doors and into the cold night air.

"There are tanks full of shit down there; they'll explode," someone says; Mulder recognizes it as George.

A truck from the garage pulls up, and Isaac helps Charlie into the back. "Mulder!"

Mulder turns, frowns, thinks he can't leave; he can't, she's still here, she's in the basement, and he needs to get back to her. But there's a crowd of people moving against him, and soon he's drawn backwards.

"Mulder!" Isaac calls, now frantic. "C'mon!"

He stumbles toward the truck, climbs into the back, where Charlie is perched on the wheel well, and Isaac is looking at him with red-rimmed eyes. Mulder doesn't know what to say, to do, so he simply grabs Isaac and pulls him into a hug as the truck peels out, leaving a trail of dust and exhaust behind it.

Others pour out of the compound, some on foot, some piled into vehicles, scattering in different directions. Another group follows the truck, driven by one of the gardeners. Mulder recognizes Peter at the wheel.

Isaac clings to him, face pressed to Mulder's chest, and he doesn't know what to do save for hold on.

They're parked close enough to feel the blast when the compound's dying breath lights up the horizon, dozens of its former citizens watching as night briefly becomes bright as day. Then they're sunk back into darkness as the explosion recedes, a smoldering line of orange against the smoky blue haze of early morning.

There are arguments about what happens next, sounds of muffled sobbing, unrest skittering amongst the crowd. Mulder doesn't hear it. A distant part of him knows he's in shock, recognizes the symptoms like they were old friends.

Isaac hasn't left his side since it happened, since they drove away from the compound and into the night. Charlie sleeps to their left, curled up on a tarp in the bed of the truck. Mulder thinks he saw one of the nurses talking to her earlier, thought he heard the word "concussion," but that was a while ago. Minutes or hours, perhaps.

It's cold; someone, maybe Isaac, threw a blanket over his shoulders. He can't stop looking at the fire on the horizon, half expecting Scully's silhouette to emerge from the flat expanse of oranges and reds.

She never does.

Eventually he closes his eyes.


	18. Chapter 18

FOUR YEARS LATER

CHROMO, COLORADO

He senses her before he sees her; her familiar weight on the mattress on the side he always leaves empty, her scent, vanilla sweet but earthy, a perfume he'd recognize across both time and space. She's laying on her side, facing him, when he opens his eyes.

"Hi," he whispers, heart caught in his throat.

 _Don't move. Don't even blink._

She reaches out, draws her hand across his cheek like a whisper, and he has to fight to keep his eyes open, has to fight to keep the grief from becoming too great. It clouds his subconscious, makes it impossible to see her like this, and these moments are too rare to waste on sadness.

"Mulder," she smiles, and he thinks it will be harder than usual to keep his shit together.

 _Mulder._ No one calls him that anymore. At most it's "Mr. Mulder", occasionally "Dad", which is still foreign to his ears. Once, the neighbor lady called him "Fox" and he'd barely flinched. It doesn't matter the way it used to, his name, and part of him likes that Scully remembers a time when it did. She took his favorite name with her to the grave.

"Been a while," he croaks.

She nods, blinks slowly, as if caught. He reaches out, touching the crown of her head, and he could swear he feels the skin beneath his fingers grow warm, life like an engine thrumming beneath, but it's only his imagination, the illusion of breath that carries them through these strange, ethereal conversations. She is so vivid, so real, and yet distant, his photographic memory to keep.

"I'm dreaming you again," he sighs, almost a question.

"Maybe," she agrees, dodging the sentiment. It's a waste of precious time to dwell on what they don't have, but he does it anyway. It's only human.

"How's Isaac?" she asks.

Mulder snorts softly, swallowing the grief. The clouds in his mind are threatening to burst, swollen with dark rain. "It's Will now," he manages in a voice too soft to be audible to anyone but himself. "He won't let me call him anything else, not since…well," he says, voice catching as he considers the since. "He misses you…but I think he's happy. I have no idea what I'm doing, I don't know what I'm supposed to do when it comes to him."

Her face is too kind, too calm, too patient. Complacent. He wishes she would yell, scream, fight him for her life. He wishes he could, too, but he'd only scare her off, and then he'd be left alone.

"I miss you, too," he finishes, the words almost broken.

She just smiles, leaning in, and places a kiss like a whisper on his lips. He swears he can taste her, and this sensory illusion is too great. A tear slips down his cheek, followed by another, and another.

He squeezes his eyes shut against them, knowing it won't be long until he wakes up and she is no longer here, but he can still feel her fingers running the length of his jaw, wrapping his body, ghost arms that touch him but never deeply enough.

"It's all gone, Scully," he murmurs, and this time he's broken in two.

"There were good years, though," she says, teasing, laughing a little. "The quiet ones. And we found him, Mulder. We found him."

She wavers, and he can't tell if it's the water in his eyes or the end for now.

"He saved us," she whispers, rich with love. "He saved the world."

He nods, Adam's apple bobbing painfully at his throat. "I know."

"But you're not happy," she says, direct as ever, the way his mind has learned to paint her.

He closes his eyes, feels his pulse like a sorrowful throb at his throat. "I'd live with being a slave if I could have you back."

"No, you wouldn't," she says easily. "You wouldn't, because that's not who you are."

He knows she is right, as much as he can't admit it now, in the midst of such terrible pain. He opens his mouth to tell her this, but she's fading.

 _Not yet…not yet._

"What's it like?" he asks, grasping for a reason to keep her close. He asks every time, and her answer is always the same.

"Flying. Like…starlight, traveling through space," she says, lips quirked. "I think I have to go."

"Don't," he says, but it's too late.

Her lips press to his ear in a kiss. "Love you," she murmurs, and he doesn't have time to answer before she is gone.

He wakes, comes up from the dream gasping for air, rolls until he's staring at the ceiling with wide, wet eyes. Instead of Scully he clutches his pillow, damp with tears.

He sits up with difficulty; his leg and back ache in a way that's unfamiliar, even for him. _Getting old_ , he thinks, with a mixture of relief and resentment.

"Dad?"

The voice comes from behind him. He blinks, rubbing the sleep from his raw eyes. "Yeah?"

"Hey," Isaac, now Will, says. He's leaning in the doorway, long and lanky, the same tousled brown hair now falls over eyes that know too much for his young age.

 _He's a grown man_ , Mulder thinks. The thought is a daily revelation.

"You OK?"

"Fine," Mulder mutters, rubbing at his face. "Rough night."

There's a careful silence as Will considers this, but he's reading Mulder's thoughts. The two of them have lived in close quarters for so long now, it's second nature. "She visits you, too, huh?"

Mulder nods, throat rusty and sore. He doesn't think he can look at his son, but Will sits down next to him, anyway.

"I think she's drawn to me," he says softly. "Like she's checking up on me. Does she talk?"

Mulder raises an eyebrow. "Yeah…sometimes. She asks about you."

He smiles a little. "She asks me about you. Do you think she's real? I mean, is she a ghost, or…?"

"I don't know," Mulder sighs. There was a time when her visits would have merited investigation, would have sparked his interest as a paranormal event, but he misses her too much to look too closely at her comings and goings. What hurts is that she doesn't stay.

Will nods, changing the subject. "Charlie and I are going to the park. She has some picnic thing she wants to do…you want to come?"

Mulder smiles a little. _Nineteen, and the kid is still asking permission to take a walk with his girlfriend._

"You don't have to ask me, you know."

Will shrugs. "I don't have to," he agrees, leaving the rest unspoken. "So I suppose you don't want to come with?"

"Nah," he sighs. "Be safe."

"We will," he says, leaning over to kiss Mulder's cheek. "I'll be back for dinner," he calls, already heading for the door.

The first time it happened, he didn't get out of bed for three days, as if by staying he could will the too-real vision of his lost partner into existence. Will had checked on him once, tentative whispering at the edge of the quilt, but eventually he'd retreated, leaving Mulder to his sorrow. He seemed to understand Mulder's need for quiet. It was like grief had taken a chainsaw to his insides, left him ripped apart like one of the corpses the monsters left behind.

He'd wished he were dead like them, too, but he'd never worked up the nerve, and there was Will to consider.

When he finally left the bedroom, the house was too bright, too loud, and the urge to curl up on the couch with his eyes shut tight and his hands over his ears was strong. Will was sitting at the kitchen table, though, sixteen and visibly hurting. They'd won the war, but it felt like a loss.

Somewhere underneath the grief, Mulder felt a twinge of guilt that he'd abandoned the kid for his own selfish mourning. He'd resolved to be more responsible, to be more attentive.

The next time she visited, he'd only stayed in bed for two days.

 _Better_ , he'd thought, _but still a pathetic excuse for a father figure._

Years later, and he still finds himself remembering her for hours at a time; never mind nine minutes, he's lost days in the fog of her memories. He'd once told her his memory was a curse; now he doesn't know if that's true. He would die if he couldn't remember, but it's also the most painful thing he's had to endure.

Mulder steps onto the covered porch; they'd had their pick of houses on the main stretch, many of them grand, but Will had chosen the blue cottage with the weedy front yard instead. A "For Sale by Owner" sign hung on a rusted pole out front; the place hadn't been occupied when the virus began to spread. Cramped and slightly worn, five rooms, it reminds Mulder of their old house in Virginia. Maybe that's why Will chose it, too, although he's never asked.

They'd left the compound's New Mexico home reluctantly, slowly. A group of volunteers returned to the wreckage shortly after the fires died down, but there was nothing to see, or so Mulder had heard. He'd been too numb, too withdrawn, lost in his denial.

The group was indecisive at first. Arguments broke out, and some of the residents scattered, venturing out on their own, while the majority—including Mulder, Isaac, and Charlie—stayed together, and decided to seek out new refuge. Without the resources of the compound's facility, the desert was inhospitable, a burning grave.

Isaac became their compass, and the group headed northward, into the San Juan mountains in southern Colorado. To others, Isaac seemed preternaturally intuitive, and perhaps wise for his age, but they attributed this to his life before the compound. Only Mulder and Charlie knew his true nature; that when they drifted too far off course, his headaches returned, and the nightmares lingered at the edges of his consciousness for weeks.

They never saw another creature; by the time they'd settled in the village, in the township formerly known as Chromo, there were murmurings that the things had never existed at all.

They were a group of 84; hungry, tired, and scared, they began to rebuild. They were survivors, after all, but Mulder's thoughts stay with the one who hadn't survived. Scully's memory is a heavy weight on his mind.

Shortly after they'd moved in, he'd built a marker for her out of scrap wood, burning her name into the grain in block letters. He'd intended to lay her wedding ring and cross to rest in her place; he'd even dug the hole next to the memorial, a square foot of sod cut out of the vast field behind their new property, but he couldn't bring himself to throw the necklace in. Mulder doesn't visit her grave often, anyway; the ground is cold and hard, and he can't find her soul in that place.

This morning, he walks away from it, taking rights and lefts at random until he's tired and aching and dusty with the dirt of back roads. The fields have long grown over, littered with dandelions, bright yellow swaths morphing into white, fluffy balls of seed, spreading as far as the eye can see. There are still a number of abandoned houses and farms; it will probably be years, possibly decades, before there are enough people alive to fill them.

By that time, he expects he'll be dead. The thought doesn't scare him the way it used to.

Once again, he's the odd one out. He can count on one hand the number of times he's gone out of his way to speak to their neighbors, though Will seems to have no shortage of friends. It doesn't surprise him that he's comfortable as the village outcast; he's the only human left, after all.

His breathing reaches an even cadence to match his stride, her ring and cross tapping a comforting patter below the hollow of his throat. He's had to replace the chain a couple times, but the pendants remain untarnished. Sometimes he wakes with the metal pressed into his skin like a brand; her cross is now his to bear.

Once, during her visit, he'd asked her if there was a God. _Did all those years of Hail Marys pay off, Scully?_ She'd smiled, but wouldn't answer.

 _Just as well_ , he thinks; he has no reason to like her god if he exists.

He walks until his stomach starts to make its presence known, then turns around and retraces his steps. He's limping by now; the knee never fully healed, but these regular sojourns keep it flexible.

He passes the park on the way back to the house; there are a few people— _hybrids_ , he reminds himself, although he can't tell the difference just by looking at them—enjoying the summer morning. There's a veteran's memorial crumbling at the edges, birds perched on the top, and just beyond, he sees the back of Will's head. Charlie sits next to him in the shade of the monument.

 _Go. Say "hi." Sit down and have a sandwich. Get out of your head for a while._

These are things Scully would say, but he hangs back, lingering, watching. Something about the way Will moves, the way he puts his hand to the small of Charlie's lean back makes him nostalgic.

The two have been inseparable since they moved. Watching them, he's surprised Will hasn't asked Charlie to move in; she lives alone in a split level down the street. Then again, Will probably has asked, but she's strong, independent, won't fall into his arms like a princess awaiting her prince.

 _That's good_ , Mulder thinks. _They should take their time…but not too much, maybe._

He leans against a tree for balance. Two older kids—the twins—are playing frisbee, one tosses it to his brother but the disc is blown off course by a light wind and lands on the blanket in front of Will and Charlie. They run over to talk to the couple, happy and animated expressions, before resuming the game, and Will turns back to Charlie, grinning, stealing a kiss.

 _I think he's happy._

Mulder decides against joining them; it would be awkward, uncomfortable. Maybe he'll ask if Will wants to invite Charlie for dinner some night this week instead. That usually goes over well.

She's charming and sharp, a perfect temper to Will's subdued, cautious nature. She's good for Will, the way Scully used to be good for Mulder, and the thought gives him comfort. Scully had been afraid they would leave their son alone, but watching them now, Mulder knows her fears were unfounded.

He turns his back on the young couple and makes his way to the house, sweating and sore, but he hasn't come close to wearing down his mind. He groans, flopping onto the lawn in front of the house, not caring what the neighbors might think when they look out their windows and see a grown man, lying in the grass like a child. He's used to being the crazy one, and if he thought he didn't care about peoples' opinions before, he cares even less now.

He tucks his hands behind his head and squints up into the sky, unable to shake the sense of loss that comes with a visit from his late partner. What worries him more is that the visits are fewer and far between, leaving him wanting more each time she fades into the ether.

 _Maybe you should stop looking back and start looking forward._

He snorts softly to himself. Living in the past is what he does. He'd lived without his sister for years; he's lived without Scully for only four, but they've been the four longest years of his life. Her death seems to have quenched his curious thirst, left him dry and raw. The drawback to having found his dead sister, and knowing for certain that Scully is also dead, is that he's not sure what to look forward to anymore.

He's not sure he'd have the energy even if he did.

 _You have Will._

This is true. If it weren't for Will, he probably wouldn't have gotten out of bed that first time. It's odd, as inept and useless as he feels, to think of himself as a father. _Who's caring for whom?_ He asks himself the question every day, but has yet to find an answer that doesn't make him feel vaguely ashamed.

He closes his eyes, pictures her face, her eyes boring into his with their ever-present acuity, lips moving in silent prayer.

 _You have to let me go_ , he thinks, desperate and aching, all the while remembering the sound of the bomb going off as if it were yesterday, the feel of the flames on his face, the smoke clogging his throat.

"Dad?"

Mulder blinks, squinting into the sun that now draws long shadows across the ground. A shadow, shaped vaguely like his son, looms above him.

 _How long have I been out?_

"It's nearly four," Will says, answering the silent question. Charlie is looking over his shoulder, concerned.

Mulder grimaces, rolls to a sitting position, feeling foolish, embarrassed. His face is raw, probably sunburned. "Must've fallen asleep."

 _For four hours. On the lawn._

"You sure you're OK?"

Mulder tries to smile but it hurts. His stomach growls angrily; he never did get breakfast, and now it's past lunch. "Yeah…hey, Charlie, did you want to stay for dinner?"

She grins, seemingly nonplussed by his strange invitation, given from the ground up. He appreciates that about her; another reason Will would do well to keep her if he can. "Only if you're making pot pie."

"Deal," Mulder agrees as Will offers his hand. He takes it, allowing him to help him up.

Dinner is vegetable pot pie—meat being scarce as it is, Mulder's lost his taste for it. He's lost his taste for most things, and takes only a few bites, while Will and Charlie tuck in, devouring their meals with relish. Mulder watches, they make small talk, and their presence is an odd comfort.

 _Maybe we did something right after all, Scully._

"So Mulder, what do you think we should do?"

He blinks, having lost track of the conversation. "Sorry, what should we do about what?"

"I said we should be recording our lives, our story…our history…for future generations."

Will snorts. "What exactly would we say, Char? That the new human race is genetically altered, human-alien hybrids? No one would believe it."

"They will, though," she insists. "They will, because they'll never know anything else. Not unless someone makes an effort to remember. You, of all people, should know how important that is."

Will's face goes dark, a cloud passing over the sun. "You make it sound like a…like a medical procedure. It was a massacre," he pauses, trying to find the words for those strange months in between, and failing. He sighs eventually, giving up, and Mulder sees a trace of the teenager who'd re-entered his life a scant few years ago. "I'm not so sure I want to remember."

Mulder watches their back and forth with amusement and familiarity, and Charlie turns to him. "Tell him he's wrong," she says with a slight smile.

"He's not…not exactly," Mulder says carefully, watching Will's expression grow darker still, knowing his pain.

He remembers everything; he's not sure he wants to, but he hasn't been given a choice. He wonders if Will suffers the same photographic ruin. "It's something that has to be done by the right person, at the right time," Mulder says finally. "And it's possible Will is too close to the events that transpired to effectively record it."

"Well, I'm not," Charlie argues, not skipping a beat. "I want our future children to know who their father was, and what he did…I want them to know where they came from. That's important," she says, looking at Will, whose face has turned red at the mention of children.

Mulder is equally perturbed, for a different reason.

 _Children._

He hadn't considered it. There were no babies at the compound, only the twins and triplets, kids who'd grown up in recent years. There were no pregnant women, though. No one in the last four years has come forth with happy news, although there aren't many couples in their town. Ten or twelve, total, three of whom would be too old to procreate, provided their biology follows a similar aging pattern to that of a hybrid.

For all they know, the hybrids are barren.

 _We may be all that's left._

The thought leaves a sour taste in the back of his throat, one that has nothing to do with his cooking.

 _If Scully were alive, she'd be studying the effects of the virus on our population. And what are you doing? Moping._

The thought makes him feel useless.

Will frowns. "Can we talk about something else?"

Charlie sighs, softening. "We have to talk about it eventually. As far as we know, we're the only survivors of a massive die-off. We're at the top of the endangered species list. That's not something we can ignore."

 _Oh, you'd be surprised_ , Mulder thinks, and he catches Will's eye, then a faint smile.

"I know," Will soothes, drawing his hand across hers with affection, his expression once again bright. "But we have more important things to worry about right now. The last time you were here, you won at Scrabble three times in a row. I can't let that stand."

"You might have to, but I'm game to let you _try_ to beat me again," his girlfriend agrees, and Mulder relaxes a little, all the while his mind churns.

"You in?" Will asks Mulder, turning to grab the board from the bookshelf in the living room.

"Sure," Mulder says, but he's biting his lip, still lost in thought.

The game goes well—for Will, at least. Mulder's rack is full of vowels, but distraction puts him at a disadvantage. He bows out as they're clearing the board for a second game, with Charlie clamoring for best two out of three.

He takes his leave to the sound of their laughter.

He lays awake for hours, long after he hears Will see Charlie out. He thinks he hears Will leave, too, and it wouldn't surprise him; there's no need to be secretive or covert, keeping late-night trysts in the humid backseat of a car or an extra-long twin in a dingy college dorm the way Mulder's generation might have at that age. They have all the privacy they need at Charlie's house.

But Will appears at his bedroom door a few minutes later, slipping down the hall on quiet feet.

"You sure you're OK?" he asks, almost a whisper, as if he doesn't expect an answer. Mulder is back-to, considers pretending to be asleep, but then sighs and turns over, realizing it's for naught. Will knows.

"I don't know," he answers honestly. "But I don't want you to worry about me."

"I have to," Will says, his voice deeper than usual. Mulder wonders if he's been crying.

"No, you don't," Mulder insists, impatient—whether for himself or his son he can't tell. "Look…you don't need to take care of me."

"You fell asleep on the lawn," Will sighs, with the kind of exasperation known to parents of young children. Mulder's heard the voice from his own throat a number of times, although less so in the last few years. "You'd sleep for twenty hours a day, and you'd starve if I didn't occasionally remind you to eat something. It's like you don't want to be here."

Mulder closes his eyes, feels a flush of embarrassment at the truth spoken so plainly. "It's not like I'm…Christ, Will, I'm just tired," he finishes weakly.

"You're depressed," he says, uncharacteristically blunt, but then his tone softens. "I guess I don't blame you."

"But?" Mulder prompts.

The boy's voice is barely a whisper. "It was my fault."

Mulder blinks, suddenly wide awake. "What?"

"My fault that she…I…the explosion—"

"No," he interrupts sharply. "No, you can't blame yourself."

"That's what she says, too."

"But…?"

"She wants me to take care of you. And I don't know how."

 _Ahh, there it is._

"Maybe I am depressed," Mulder admits, "but I'm not going anywhere. I'm not going to do anything stupid—nothing more stupid than falling asleep on the grass, at least."

This gets a smile from the boy.

 _Man_ , Mulder corrects himself, _he's a man now, you have to stop thinking of him as a kid._

"Hey, who won?" he prompts.

"Charlie. She always wins."

"She's smart," Mulder says carefully, watching Will's reaction. As he expected, his cheeks grow pink, and there's a flash of something on his face. Mulder recognizes it as love.

"Yeah…she's really smart."

"You're lucky to have her," Mulder says, not realizing how hard it would be to say the words. He's thinking about Scully again, and judging from the look on his face, Will knows it. There's a long pause.

"I know," Will says finally, "I keep expecting my luck to run out…"

 _And you'll end up like me_ , Mulder thinks, finishing the boy's sentence for him. Will's eyes meet his, a world of haunted thoughts swimming just beyond Mulder's reach.

"Yeah," he whispers. "Well…g'night."

He's probably slept more in the last four years than in the rest of his life combined, but insomnia keeps its grip, and sleep eludes him tonight.

Mulder finally gives in and gets up to check on Will, an old habit, even though he hasn't had nightmares for several years now. Will's breathing is soft and even, his arm draped over the side of the bed like a child's, and Mulder lets the bedroom door click shut carefully.

He wanders the house, thinking about Will, about Charlie, trying and failing not to think about Scully. Something nags at him, creating a restless energy that no amount of pacing can soothe.

He stops at the threshold to the room they refer to as the office; he shares it with Will, although neither of them use it. It's the place to throw things when they don't know where else to put them; it's cluttered with odds and ends. Mulder wades into the mess, realizes with some surprise that he's searching for something.

He paws through the boxes at the back of the room, a haphazard pile stacked on his old desk. Nothing is in order, clothing mixed with books, long-dead electronics saved for parts, but he finds what he's seeking at the bottom of one of the large boxes. An old Remington typewriter with ribbons still in the box, salvaged from one of the nearby houses a couple years back, thrown here for no reason other than to gather dust.

 _Or maybe there was a reason._

Underneath the typewriter, stacked in a box, is a sheaf of papers. The ones on top are printed, later ones are typed, and some are handwritten.

 _The book._

Charlie's words come back to him, and it begins to make sense, the reason for his restless seeking.

He'd started the manuscript years ago, and while most of what he'd written back then amounts to little more than notes and pen scratches, it's something. A start.

His heart pounds, and he feels a twinge of excitement.

 _Time to put your memory to good use._

Will wakes to a foreign noise, the _rat-tat-tat_ of a miniature machine gun firing from the main part of the house. Confused, he sits up, twisting around; the clock next to his bed reads 5:47 a.m.

He rubs at his eyes as he makes his way downstairs. The _tat-tat_ continues its furious staccato from the kitchen.

"Dad…?"

Mulder is seated at the kitchen table, an older model typewriter in front of him the source of the racket. He doesn't look up. "There's coffee," he says as he continues typing, words muffled by the Wite-Out pen clamped between his teeth.

"What are you doing? Did you sleep?"

Mulder frowns, repositions the paper on the roll, and types more. "I thought I'd find something to do with my time, besides sleep," he adds, with a pointed _tack-TACK_ on the keyboard.

Will sags against the counter. When Mulder doesn't make a move to explain further, he relents and grabs a chipped green mug from the cupboard, pouring himself a cup of the dark liquid. He pushes aside a sheaf of papers to make room at the opposite end of the table. The top sheet is a near-empty cover page with only two words in the middle: _The X-Files._

"What's this?" Isaac asks, taking his first sip; it's strong, soothing.

"It's the book," Mulder says.

"I thought it was a joke?" Will says, raising an eyebrow. "You and the Doc made it sound like you weren't really writing anything."

"I wasn't, back then," Mulder replies, pursing his lips at something he's written. _Tap-tap-tap-bink_ as the machine makes a new line. "I am now."

Will leans forward, sets his coffee cup on the table harder than necessary, the _clunk_ enough of an interruption for Mulder to look up from his work. "Does this have to do with Charlie?"

Mulder looks him in the eye. "You know it does, Will," he says finally, simply. _You can read my mind_ , he thinks.

Will sits back in his seat, glowering. Many things have changed since the dissolution of the compound and the subsequent move to southern Colorado, but his abilities remain. It became apparent after leaving the magnetite-rich desert, when the thoughts came back. Not as strong as before, but there.

It had made him feel ill. He wonders if They will come back, if they'll decide to take up their failed experiment once again, or if their virtual petri dish has been discarded for good.

"Why now?" he asks, flipping casually through the first few pages, the ones written before Mulder and Scully found him in Wyoming.

"Because Charlie's right," he says, back to the keyboard. "It's our history, whether we like it or not. We owe it to future generations, if there are any, to tell them their story…from the beginning."

Will snorts, skimming the paragraphs. It starts well before he was born, with the beginnings of the strange cases investigated by the FBI.

"I'm hoping you can help me, though," Mulder continues.

"Oh?"

"Tell your part…about your life in Wyoming, your parents, your childhood…maybe help edit some sense into it, if I get to that point," he adds.

Will frowns. He never imagined he'd have so many lost loved ones to miss. His life had been so contained, and now it's distant, a life that belonged to someone else.

"Only if you want to, of course," Mulder continues.

"I'll think about it."

"Thanks. What time is it, anyway?"

"Near six," Will yawns. "I suppose you're going to bed soon."

Mulder stretches, blinking into the light. "I should probably wrap it up. Yeah…soon."

There's companionable silence as Mulder returns to the typewriter and Will sips his coffee. Eventually he stands, suddenly unnerved, whether from the conversation or the caffeine rush, he's not sure.

"I'm going to shower."

Mulder doesn't look up. "Leave me some hot water."

Mulder writes well into the afternoon, stopping only when he nods off mid-sentence, his fingers mashing several keys in a spectacular typo. His Wite-Out pen is empty, most of it used on similar mishaps. His hands and wrists ache from maintaining their claw-like positioning, the muscles required to hit the aging keys are strained. He glances at his empty mug, debating.

 _Coffee isn't going to fix it this time._

His bed beckons. He answers the call and is fast asleep within minutes, his face buried in the pillow.

He wakes to the sound of her laughter, rubbing sand from his eyes. She's here again, the second time in a row.

"That hasn't happened since you left," he murmurs, mostly to himself, but she smiles.

"Can't stay away," Scully agrees.

"The book. You wanted me to write the book," he says, the realization coming from that ethereal part of his consciousness where sleep and waking meet. "Why didn't you say so?"

Her fingers brush an errant lock of hair from his forehead. "I only say what you want me to say, Mulder."

He swallows hard, wondering why this is a disappointment. He half-smiles, though his heart is heavy at the thought. "I'd hoped you were a ghost."

She rolls her eyes. "You were the one who told me that spirits only linger when they have unfinished business."

"Not that you believed me at the time," he points out, ignoring the sting behind his eyes.

She chuckles. "It was hard to believe most of what you said. Doesn't mean I didn't, though," she says, lowering her voice. "We found the truth."

His hand reaches out to cup her cheek. "You were my truth."

She smiles, turning her head to kiss the center of his palm, warming it with her not-alive breath.

Something clicks, sad reality dawns on him, his own unfinished business has come to a close. "I'm not going to see you again."

For the first time since her appearance on a warm October morning, she looks sad, a flash of something like regret crossing her features. Her silence tells him everything.

It hurts, but not as much as he expected.

 _Maybe there's hope._

Her arms move around him, drawing him close, and in that moment she is as real as she has ever been. Her forehead presses tenderly into the hollow of his throat. He breathes her in, every detail, every nuance; the way her hair tickles at his collarbone, the scent of her bare skin, the taste of her mouth. He rolls back until she is on top of him, kissing him, at long last able to quiet his mind for a few moments. She kisses him, loves him, and he remembers.

He remembers everything.


	19. Chapter 19

EPILOGUE

Their graves are marked by rough wood crosses, but even if they weren't, he knows the boundaries by heart.

He doesn't visit as often as he should, but today was a good day for a hike. It will be winter soon; the wind carries the last of the leaves away from their limbed masters, and they rattle along the grass and through the great field that looks over their tiny town.

It's been exactly one year since his father passed; Mulder's heart gave out in his sleep, and they'd buried him in the meadow behind their property, the part that was overgrown with dandelions—as close to Scully's cross as they could get.

Mulder doesn't visit Will the way Scully used to. At some point, her visits stopped, too. He doesn't know why, but it probably had something to do with moving in with Charlie. He'd taken his biological father's advice to heart; at some point, you have to stop looking back and start looking forward.

"Will?"

His thoughts are interrupted as Charlie walks up the slope behind him, kids in tow; she carries Gwen, the youngest, in her arms, while Dana hangs back, examining something in the grass—a flower, perhaps, or an insect. She's taken to collecting both, though neither seem to do well under her six-year-old ministrations.

"The natives are restless," Charlie says, giving him a thin smile. "Gwen is ready for a nap, it's a long walk back…"

Indeed, the two-year-old is blinking and rubbing her eyes, subdued against her mother's shoulder.

"OK," he says, "Thanks, Char. I'll be done in a minute. Promise."

She nods and turns away; he can hear her negotiating with their elder daughter over the girl's latest acquisition, and he has to smile at the young girl's tenacity. It reminds him of his mother.

 _Mothers. Plural._

He'd taken his given name to honor her in death, although he doesn't know how much of an honor it is. He's of split minds—and split names—two faces, one person, two lives stitched together with time, the seams feeble where the stuffing pokes through.

Years of searching, but he still can't say he knows who he is yet; Isaac, the sickly Wyoming farm boy, or Will, member of what's left of the half-human race.

If nothing else, he knows he was their son, but his place in the grander scheme of things is murky.

There are more pressing matters to tend to. He's been sitting on the grass for an hour at least, overcome by nostalgia and longing for something he can't divine, listening to the sounds of his children playing in the distance. Now he stands and groans. He'll be 32 next year, and he likes to joke that he looks 24, but feels 40. Today, the latter estimate might be pushing 45.

He hadn't expected to miss them this much. He'd only had them for a few years—some of the scariest, most tumultuous years—but perhaps their shared blood ran thicker than any of them understood.

In the end, he'd known his biological father for much longer than his adoptive father, but now that both men are on equal footing, he can't say he knows any more about Mulder than he had about the other man. The thought is troubling today, more so than usual.

"Gotta go," he whispers, bending to touch his fingers to the soil one last time.

The bedtime routine takes longer than usual that evening; the kids are fussy, overtired from the hike, and Will finds himself distracted by thoughts of his late parents—all four of them, biological and not—while struggling to get the girls to stay put in their beds.

Their thoughts are frantic, the wild whimsies of small children, and he finds it's no easier to be able to read them than not. They want impossible things. Parenting is the one place his powers don't give him an advantage.

He breathes a sigh of relief when he checks in on them and they're breathing evenly, and he's finally left alone with his thoughts, heavy as they are.

"Thank God," Charlie sighs when he delivers the good news. She's sitting on their worn couch, head propped up in her hand and a book in her lap. "You're a miracle worker, Will. I didn't think they'd ever go down."

"I didn't, either," he confesses, but he's already moved on, thinking of other things. She senses his unrest in that uncanny way she has. Sometimes he thinks she must be able to read minds, too; his, in particular, is an open book.

"You OK? You seemed lost today."

"Have a lot on my mind," he admits, his tone rough. She's learned when to push him to talk; tonight is not one of those times.

"Well…when you're ready, I'm here," she says, standing and placing a kiss on his temple. "I'm going to bed. The girls wore me out."

He looks up, smiles a little, though his expression remains distant. "Char?"

"Yeah?"

A pause, as if he wants to say something, but he doesn't know what. He finally settles on, "Love you."

She reaches out to ruffle his hair. "You too…new kid. Goodnight."

"'Night."

Quiet settles around him as the house and his family dreams; their visions weave through Will's consciousness like honeysuckle vines. The girls' thoughts are the flowers blooming, fireworks of color and sweetness against a backdrop of gentle greens and blues. It relaxes him, innocence after so much turmoil, and he wishes he could share in their collective blank slates.

He sighs, restless, wanting for something he can't articulate.

 _The book._

Mulder had finished it one year shy of his death; it needed editing. Will had agreed, reluctantly, but there was always an excuse to put it off, especially after the kids came along.

 _At least he was alive to meet them_ , he thinks, remembering the pride in his father's eyes when he'd held his firstborn granddaughter.

Will can't help but wonder if that had been the catalyst for his death, the reason he felt he could move on, knowing his life's work was in good hands, that there was hope for future generations. There had been six other babies born around the same time as Will's elder daughter, as if some magical spell had lifted and granted their community a reprieve from dark years of worrying if they were the last.

He wanders, much the way his father would have, and ends up holding the patchwork manuscript in his hands, wondering if he's ready to relive it. The oldest pages are yellowed, the fresh ones underneath are still white and crisp.

 _No time like the present,_ he sighs to himself, buoyed by the lull of his family's dreams as the clouds around him darken.

He fixes himself a cup of coffee, hesitates, then adds a shot of the amber liquid he keeps in the top cabinet for special occasions.

 _Can't get much more special than this_ , he thinks, sending out a silent toast to the author as he takes his first sip. The coffee burns not in temperature, but in spirit.

He sits down at the table and begins to read.

* * *

 _And there you have it._

 _Do you hate me?_

 _You probably hate me..._

 _...please don't hate me! I tried not to do it, I really did, but the muse wants what she wants, and sometimes she's bloodthirsty and kind of a bitch. :-/_

 _If you made it this far without throwing your computer/iPad/Kindle/sheaf of printed papers out the window, I applaud you. Thank you for reading, for sharing, for commenting, and for putting up with my flakiness as a fanfic writer._

 _...and I swore I wouldn't do it, but see the part about my muse being uncooperative..._

 _I *may* have outlined a fifth part to this universe, in the form of a longish short story. Maybe. I've learned my lesson, and I'm not making any promises or setting any deadlines, but these characters aren't done with me yet._


End file.
